Tack, on the contrary, looked as if he had been dieted on India-rubber balls: every time he raised a hind leg it seemed to shoot his own length a-head of himself; if he could have made his steps as quick as the old lady, he might have done a mile in a minute nearly.

Presently, Tacony breaks up, and, ere he pulls into a trot, a long gap is left.

Shouts of "Lady Suffolk, Lady Suffolk wins!" rend the air; a few seconds more, and the giant strides of Tacony lessen the gap at every step: they reach the distance-post neck and neck; "Tacony wins!" is the cry, and true enough it is--by a length.

Young blood beats old blood--India-rubber balls "whip" lightning.

Time, five minutes.
The usual excitement and disputing follow, the usual time elapses--whack number one is heard, all ready--whack number two, on they come, snaffle bridles, pulling at their horses' mouths as though they would pull the bit right through to the tips of their tails.