Grand Old Jockey (aloud). Well, ARTHUR my lad, in the saddle again!
Is that your crack mount?
Rising Young Jockey. The identical one, WILL.
Grand Old Jockey. Dear, dear, what a pity! It quite gives me pain
To see you so wasted.
Rising Young Jockey. That's only your fun, WILL.
Grand Old Jockey. Nay, nay, not at all! Don't think much of his points.
He's not bred like a true-blood, nor built like a winner.
Not well put together, so coarse in his joints,
In fact—only fit for a hunting-pack's dinner!