Sarah read some of these names out: "Jack Hooper, Marylebone. All
bets paid." "Tom Wood's famous boxing rooms, Epsom." "James Webster,
Commission Agent, London." And these betting men bawled the prices from
the top of their high stools and shook their satchels, which were filled
with money, to attract custom. "What can I do for you to-day, sir?" they
shouted when they caught the eye of any respectably-dressed man. "On the
Der-by, on the Der-by, I'll bet the Der-by.... To win or a place, to win
or a place, to win or a place--seven to one bar two or three, seven to one
bar two or three.... the old firm, the old firm,"--like so many
challenging cocks, each trying to outshrill the other.
Under the hill-side in a quiet hollow had been pitched a large and
commodious tent. Journeyman mentioned that it was the West London
Gospel-tent. He thought the parson would have it pretty well all to
himself, and they stopped before a van filled with barrels of Watford
ales. A barrel had been taken from the van and placed on a small table;
glasses of beer were being served to a thirsty crowd; and all around were
little canvas shelters, whence men shouted, "'Commodation, 'commodation."
The sun had risen high, and what clouds remained floated away like
filaments of white cotton. The Grand Stand, dotted like a ceiling with
flies, stood out distinct and harsh upon a burning plain of blue.
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