The clock of the course pointed to half-past one; the saddling bell
would ring at a quarter to two, for the days were short and darkened
early; the Stewards were all arrived, except the Marquis of Rockingham,
and the Ring was in the full rush of excitement; some "getting on"
hurriedly to make up for lost time; some "peppering" one or other of the
favorites hotly; some laying off their moneys in a cold fit of caution;
some putting capfuls on the King, or Bay Regent, or Pas de Charge,
from the great commission stables, the local betting man, the shrewd
wiseacres from the Ridings, all the rest of the brotherhood of the Turf
were crowding together with the deafening shouting common to them which
sounds so tumultuous, so insane, and so unintelligible to outsiders.
Amid them half the titled heads of England, all the great names known
on the flat, and men in the Guards, men in the Rifles, men in the Light
Cavalry, men in the Heavies, men in the Scots Greys, men in the Horse
Artillery, men in all the Arms and all the Regiments that had sent their
first riders to try for the Blue Ribbon, were backing their horses with
crackers, and jotting down figure after figure, with jeweled pencils, in
dainty books, taking long odds with the fields. Carriages were standing
in long lines along the course, the stands were filled with almost as
bright a bevy of fashionable loveliness as the Ducal brings together
under the park trees of Goodwood; the horses were being led into the
inclosure for saddling, a brilliant sun shone for the nonce on the
freshest of February noons; beautiful women were fluttering out of their
barouches in furs and velvets, wearing the colors of the jockey they
favored, and more predominant than any were Cecil's scarlet and white,
only rivaled in prominence by the azure of the Heavy Cavalry champion,
Sir Eyre Montacute.
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