“Be my soul, I 'd rather be lookin' at him than the gentlemen!” said a very tattered individual, with a coat like a transparency. These, and a hundred similar comments, fell like hail-drops around; and I believe that in my momentary triumph I actually forgot all the dangers and perils of my offence.
It is a great occasion for rejoicing among the men of rags and wretchedness when a member of their own order has achieved anything like fame. The assertion of their ability to enter the lists with “their betters” is the very pleasantest of all flatteries. It is, so to say, a kind of skirmish, before that great battle which, one day or other, remains to be fought between the two classes which divide mankind,— those who have, and those who have not.
I little suspected that I was, to use the cant so popular at present, “the representative of a great principle” in my late success. I took all the praises bestowed, most literally, to myself, and shook hands with all the dirty and tattered mob, fully convinced that I was a very fine fellow.
“Mister Beatagh wants to see the boy that led him over the ditch,” shouted out a huge, wide-shouldered, red-faced ruffian, as he shoved the crowd right and left to make way for the approach of the gentleman who had just won the race.
“Stand up bowld, avic!” whispered one in my ear, “and don't be ashamed to ax for your reward.”
“Say ten guineas!” muttered another.
“No; but twenty!” growled out a third.
“And lashings of drink besides, for the present company!” suggested a big-headed cripple about two feet high.
“Are you the lad that took the fence before me?” cried out a smart-looking, red-whiskered young man, with a white surtout loosely thrown over his riding costume.
“Yes, sir,” I replied, half modestly and half assured.