orange-stall and swerve to the left into a roulette-booth presided over by
a vociferous ancient in a tattered overcoat and blue spectacles. The
gamblers scatter like flushed partridges and the ancient bites the turf
beneath his upturned board amid a shower of silver coins. The leaders,
scared by the animated table, and the blood-curdling invocations and
wildly-waving arms and legs of the fallen croupier, shy violently in the
opposite direction and disappear into the refreshment-tent, whence issue
the crash of crockery and the shrieks of the attendant Hebes. (Lieut.-
Commander KENWORTHY should have some questions to pop about this at
Westminster when next the Irish Question comes up.)

The bookmakers are perched a-top of a grassy knoll which overlooks the
whole course, and around them surges the crowd.

* * * * *

_Scarecrow (in somebody's cast-off dinner-jacket and somebody else's
abandoned hunting breeches.)_ Kyard of the races! Kyard of the races!

_Farmer._ Here y' are. How much?

_Scarecrow._ Wan shillin'-an'-sixpence, Sorr.

_Farmer._ There's "Price wan shillin'" printed on ut, ye blagyard.

_Scarecrow._ The sixpence is for the Government's little Intertainmints
Tax, Sorr.

_Farmer._ Oh, go to the divil!