till it was perfectly convenient to him -- a favour that Jack was pretty sure to accord him -- Mr Viney took his departure, Jack undertaking to write him the result. The next day’s post brought Viney the document -- unpaid, of course -- with a great ‘Scamperdale’ scrawled across the top; and forthwith it was decided that the steeplechase should be called the ‘Grand Aristocratic.’ Other names quickly followed, and it soon assumed an importance. Advertisements appeared in all the sporting and would-be sporting papers, headed with the imposing names of the stewards, secretary, and clerk of the course, Mr Viney. The ‘Grand Aristocratic Stakes,’ of 20 sovs. each, half-forfeit, and £5 only if declared, &c. The winner to give two dozen of champagne to the ordinary, and the second horse to save his stake. Gentlemen riders (titled ones to be allowed 3 lbs.). Over about three miles of fine hunting country, under the usual steeplechase conditions.

Then the game of the ‘Peeping Toms,’ and ‘Sly Sams,’ and ‘Infallible Joes,’ and ‘Wide-awake Jems,’ with their tips and distribution of prints began; Tom counselling his numerous and daily increasing clients to get well on to No. 9, Sardanapalus (the Bart., as Watchorn called him), while ‘Infallible Joe’ recommended his friends and patrons to be sweet on No. 6 (Hercules), and ‘Wide-awake Jem’ was all for something else. A gentleman who took the trouble of getting tips from half a dozen of them, found that no two of them agreed in any particular. What information to make books upon!

‘But what good,’ as our excellent friend Thackeray eloquently asks, ‘ever came out of, or went into, a betting book? If I could be Caliph Omar for a week,’ says he, ‘I would pitch every one of those despicable manuscripts into the flames; from my-lord’s, who is ‘‘in’’ with Jack Snaffle’s stable, and is overreaching worse-informed rogues, and swindling green-horns, down to Sam’s, the butcher’s boy, who books eighteen- penny odds in the tap-room, and stands to win five-and-twenty bob.’ We say ditto to that, and are not sure that we wouldn’t hang a ‘leg’ or a ‘list’ man or two into the bargain.

Watchorn had a prophet of his own, one Enoch Wriggle, who, having tried his hand unsuccessfully first at tailoring, next as an accountant, then in the watercress, afterwards in the buy ‘’at-box, bonnet-box,’ and lastly in the stale lobster and periwinkle line, had set up as an oracle on turf matters, forwarding the most accurate and infallible information to flats in exchange for half-crowns, heading his advertisements, ‘If it be a sin to covet honour, I am the most offending soul alive!’ Enoch did a considerable stroke of business, and couched his advice in such dubious terms, as generally to be able to claim a victory whichever way the thing went. So the ‘offending soul’ prospered; and from scarcely having shoes to his feet, he very soon set up a gig.