I was once equipped in a hat of Leghorn straw, having a brim of much wider dimensions than were usual at that time, and sent to school in that portion of my native town which lies nearest to this metropolis.

On my way I was met by a "Port-chuck," as we used to call the young gentlemen of that locality, and the following dialogue ensued.
The Port-chuck.

Hullo, You-sir, joo know th' wuz gon-to be a race to-morrah?
Myself.

No.

Who's gon-to run, 'n' wher's't gon-to be?
The Port-chuck.