****
“What does onybody say ‘boot it Frenchman?” at length asked he in his elliptical Yorkshire dialect, looking round on the company.
“What do you say ‘boot it Frenchman, Sir Moses?” asked he, not getting an answer from any one.
“Faith, I know nothing,” replied the Baronet, with a slight curl of the lip.
“Nay, yeer tied to know summut, hooever,” replied Gallon, rubbing his nose across the back of his hand; “yeer tied to know summut, hooever. Why, he’s a stoppin’ at yeer house, isn’t he?”
“That may all be,” rejoined Sir Moses, “without my knowing anything of his riding. What do you say yourself? you’ve seen him.”
“Seen him!” retorted Gallon, “why he’s a queer lookin’ chap, ony hoo—that’s all ar can say: haw, haw, haw.”
“You won’t back him, then?” said Sir Moses, inquiringly.
“Hardly that,” replied Gallon, shaking his head and laughing heartily, “hardly that, Sir Moses. Ar’ll tell you whatar’ll do, though,” said he, “just to mak sport luike, ar’ll tak yeer two to one—two croons to one,” producing a greasy-looking metallic-pencilled betting-book as he spoke.
Just then a move outside the ring announced an arrival, and presently Mr. Heslop came steering Cuddy Flintoff along in his wife’s Croydon basket-carriage, Cuddy’s head docked in an orange-coloured silk cap, and his whole person enveloped in a blue pilot coat with large mother-of-pearl buttons. The ominous green-pointed jockey whip was held between his knees, as with folded arms he lolled carelessly in the carriage, trying to look comfortable and unconcerned.