Some of the best of the colts are pranced round, a few minutes each, to show their paces.

What is that old gentleman crying about?
and the old lady by him, and the three girls, what are they all covering their eyes for?
Oh, that is THEIR colt which has just been trotted up on the stage.

Do they really think those little thin legs can do anything in such a slashing sweepstakes as is coming off in these next forty years?
Oh, this terrible gift of second-sight that comes to some of us when we begin to look through the silvered rings of the arcus senilis! TEN YEARS GONE.

First turn in the race.

A few broken down; two or three bolted.