"He must look after his place on the 'ill or else he'll do no betting," said Journeyman. "We've plenty of time; racing don't begin till after one."
Recollections of what the road had once been had loosened John's tongue, and he continued his reminiscences of the great days when Sir Thomas Hayward had laid fifteen thousand to ten thousand three times over against the favourite. The third bet had been laid at this very spot, but the Duke would not accept the third bet, saying that the horse was then being backed on the course at evens. So Sir Thomas had only lost thirty thousand pounds on the race. Journeyman was deeply interested in the anecdote; but Sarah looked at the old man with a look that said, "Well, if I'm to pass the day with you two I never want to go to the Derby again…. Come on in front," she whispered to Esther, "and let them talk about their racing by themselves." The way led through a field ablaze with buttercups; it passed by a fish-pond into which three drunkards were gazing. "Do you hear what they're saying about the fish?" said Sarah.
"Don't pay no attention to them," said Esther. "If you knew as much about drunkards as I do, you'd want no telling to give them a wide berth…. Isn't the country lovely? Isn't the air soft and warm?"
"Oh, I don't want no more country. I'm that glad to get back to town. I wouldn't take another situation out of London if I was offered twenty a year."
"But look," said Esther, "at the trees. I've hardly been in the country since I left Woodview, unless you call Dulwich the country—that's where Jackie was at nurse."
The Cockney pilgrimage passed into a pleasant lane overhung with chestnut and laburnum trees. The spring had been late, and the white blossoms stood up like candles—the yellow dropped like tassels, and the streaming sunlight filled the leaves with tints of pale gold, and their light shadows patterned the red earth of the pathway. But very soon this pleasant pathway debouched on a thirsting roadway where tired horses harnessed to heavy vehicles toiled up a long hill leading to the Downs. The trees intercepted the view, and the blown dust whitened the foliage and the wayside grass, now in possession of hawker and vagrant. The crowd made way for the traps; and the young men in blue and grey trousers, and their girls in white dresses, turned and watched the four horses bringing along the tall drag crowned with London fashion. There the unwieldly omnibus and the brake filled with fat girls in pink dresses and yellow hats, and there the spring cart drawn up under a hedge. The cottage gates were crowded with folk come to see London going to the Derby. Outhouses had been converted into refreshment bars, and from these came a smell of beer and oranges; further on there was a lamentable harmonium—a blind man singing hymns to its accompaniment, and a one-legged man holding his hat for alms; and not far away there stood an earnest-eyed woman offering tracts, warning folk of their danger, beseeching them to retrace their steps.
At last the trees ceased and they found themselves on the hilltop in a glare of sunlight, on a space of worn ground where donkeys were tethered.
"Is this the Derby?" said Sarah.
"I hope you're not disappointed?"
"No, dear; but where's all the people—the drags, the carriages?"