When the foal is first born, it is turned loose
into the paddock; and if his mother don't
give him enough milk, the cow makes up the
deficiency. He scampers about in this way
for about a year.: then he is 'taken up;'
that is, bitted, and backed by a ' dumb-jockey '
—a cross of wood made for the purpose.
When he has got a little used to that, we try
him with a speaking jockey — a child some
seven or eight years old, who has been born,
like the colt, in the stables. From that time
till the horse retires from the turf, the two
are inseparable. They eat, drink, sleep, go out
and come in together. Under the directions of
the trainer, the boy tells the horse what to do,
and he does it; for he knows that he is indebted
to the boy for everything he gets. When he is
hungry, it is the boy that gives him his corn;
when he is thirsty, the boy hands him his
water; if he gets a stoue in his foot, the boy
picks it out. By the time the colt is old
enough to run, he and the boy have got to
like one another so well that they fret to be
away from one another. As for bribing!
Why, you may as well try to bribe the horse
to poison the boy, as the boy to let the horse
be injured."

"But the thing has happened, Mr. Filbert?"

"Not so much as is talked about. Sometimes
a likely foal is sent to a training stable,
and cracked up as something wonderful. He
is entered to run. On trial, he turns out
to be next to nothing; and the backers, to
save their reputation, put it about, that the
horse was played tricks with. There is hardly
a great race, but you hear something about
horses going amiss by foul play."

"Do many of these boys become jockeys?"

"Mostly. Some of them are jockeys already,
and ride ' their own ' horses, as they call
them. Here comes one."

A miniature man, with a horsewhip neatly
twisted round the crop or handle, opens the
gate.

"Well, Tommy, how are you, Tommy?"

"Well, Sir, bobbish. Fine day, Mr. Filbert."

Although Mr. Filbert tells us in a whisper
that Tommy is only twelve next birth-day,
Tommy looks as if he had entered far into
his teens. His dress is deceptive. Light
trousers terminating in buttons, laced shoes,
long striped waistcoat, a cut-away coat, a
coloured cravat, a collar to which juveniles
aspire under the name of " stick-ups," and a
Paris silk hat, form his equipment.

"Let's see, Tommy; what stakes did you
win last?"

Tommy flicks, with the end of his whip-
crop, a speck of dirt from the toe of his " off"
shoe, and replies carelessly, " The Great
Northamptonshire upon Valentine. But then,
I have won a many smaller stakes, you know,
Mr. Filbert."

Are there many jockeys so young as
Tommy?

"Not many so young." says Tommy, tying
a knot in his whip thong, " but a good many
smaller." Tommy then walks across the
straw-yard to speak to some stable friend he
has come to see. Tommy has not only the
appearance, but the manners of a man.

"That boy will be worth money," says Mr.
Filbert. " It is no uncommon thing for a
master to give a lad like that a hundred
pound when he wins a race. As he can't
spend it in hard-bake, or ginger-beer, or
marbles, (the young rogue does, occasionally,
get rid of a pound or two in cigars,) he saves
it. I have known a racing-stable lad begin
the world at twenty, with from three to four
thousand pound."

Tommy is hopping back over the straw, as
if he had forgotten something. " O, I beg
your pardon for not asking before," he says,
"but — how does Mrs. Filbert find herself?"

"Quite well, thank you, Tommy." Tommy
says he is glad to hear it, and walks off like a
family-man.

Our interview with Mr. Filbert is finished,
and we pace towards the race-course with its
indefatigable clerk. Presently, he points to a
huge white object that rears its leaden roof
on the apex of the highest of the " Downs."
It is the Grand Stand. It is so extensive, so
strong, and so complete, that it seems built
for eternity, instead of for busy use during
one day in the year, and for smaller requisition
during three others. Its stability is
equal to St. Paul's or the Memnonian Temple.
Our astonishment, already excited, is increased
when our cicerone tells us that he pays as rent,
arid in subscriptions to stakes to be run for,
nearly two thousand pounds per annum for
that stand. Expecting an unusually great
concourse of visitors this year, he has erected
a new wing, extended the betting enclosure,
and fitted up two apartments for the exclusive
use of ladies.

Here we are! Let us go into the basement.
First into the weighing-house, where
the jockeys " come to scale" after each race.
We then inspect the offices for the Clerk of
the Course himself; wine-cellars, beer-cellars,
larders, sculleries, and kitchens, all as
gigantically appointed, and as copiously furnished
as if they formed part of an Ogre's Castle.
To furnish the refreshment-saloon, the Grand
Stand has in store two thousand four
hundred tumblers, one thousand two hundred
wine-glasses, three thousand plates and dishes,
and several of the most elegant vases we
have seen out of the Glass Palace, deco-
rated with artificial flowers. An exciting
odour of cookery meets us in our descent.
Rows of spits are turning rows of joints
before blazing walls of fire. Cooks are trussing fowls;
confectioners are making jellies;
kitchen-maids are plucking pigeons; huge
crates of boiled tongues are being garnished
on dishes. One hundred and thirty legs of
lamb, sixty-five saddles of lamb, and one
hundred and thirty shoulders of lamb; in
short, a whole flock of sixty-five lambs have