"Nothing  much.  Oh,  yes ;  here's  something.  An-
other railway  accident.  Collision,  apparently.  West-
inghouse  brake  gone  wrong.  Two  killed,  seven  hurt,
and — by  Jove !  listen  to  this :  'Among  the  victims  was
one  of  the  competitors  in  the  equine  Olympiad  of
to-day.  A  sharp  splinter  had  penetrated  its  side,  and
the  valuable  animal  had  to  be  sacrificed  upon  the
shrine  of  humanity.  The  name  of  the  horse  is  Bi-


OUR  DERBY  SWEEPSTAKES.  231

cycle.'  Halloo,  you've  gone  and  spilled  your  coffee
all  over  the  cloth,  Hawthorne !  Ah !  I  forgot ;  Bicy-
cle was  your  horse,  wasn't  it  ?  Your  chance  is  gone,
I  am  afraid.  I  see  that  Iroquois,  who  started  low,
has  come  to  be  first  favorite  now."

Ominous  words,  reader,  as  no  doubt  your  nice
discernment  has  taught  you  during,  at  the  least,  the
last  three  pages.  Don't  call  me  a  flirt  and  a  co-
quette until  you  have  weighed  the  facts.  Consider
my  pique  at  the  sudden  desertion  of  my  admirers,
think  of  my  delight  at  the  confession  from  a  man
whom  I  had  tried  to  conceal  from  myself  even  that
I  loved,  think  of  the  opportunities  which  he  enjoyed
during  the  time  Jack  and  Sol  were  systematically
avoiding  me,  in  accordance  with  their  ridiculous
agreement.  Weigh  all  this,  and  then  which  among
you  will  throw  the  first  stone  at  the  blushing  little
prize  of  the  Derby  Sweep?

Here  it  is  as  it  appeared  at  the  end  of  three  short
months  in  the  "Morning  Post":  "August  12th. — At
Hatherley  Church,  Nicholas  Cronin,  Esq.,  eldest  son
of  Nicholas  Cronin,  Esq.,  of  the  Woodlands,  Crop-
shire,  to  Miss  Eleanor  Montague,  daughter  of  the
late  James  Montague,  Esq.,  J.  P.,  of  Hatherley
House."

Jack  set  off  with  the  declared  intention  of  volun-
teering for  a  ballooning  expedition  to  the  North  Pole.
