There were the gypsies, the jugglers, the acrobats, the costers with their provision barrows; the grooms and stable hands; the beggars and obvious pick-pockets; the low-down harlots--the high-up ones were already entering the seats of the Grand Stand or sitting on the four-in-hand coaches or in the open landaulettes and Silent Knights.
But evidently the professional betting men were a new growth since the mid-nineteenth century.

They were just beginning to assemble, wiping their mouths from the oozings of the last potation; some, the aristocrats of their calling, like sporting peers in dress and appearance; others like knock-about actors on the music-hall stage.
The generality were remarkably similar to ordinary city men or to the hansom-cab drivers of twenty years ago.
In the very front of the crowd on the Grand Stand side, leaning with her elbows on the wooden rail, she descried Emily Davison.

Vivie edged and sidled through the crowd and touched her on the shoulder.
Emily looked up with a start, surprised at seeing the friendly face of a young man, till she recognized Vivie by her voice.

"Dear Emily," said Vivie, "you look so tired.

Aren't you over-trying your strength?
I don't know what you have in hand, but why not postpone your action till you are quite strong again ?" "I shall never be stronger than I am to-day and it can't be postponed, cost me what it will," was the reply, while the sad eyes looked away across the course.
"Well," said Vivie, "I wanted you to know that I was close by, prepared to back you up if need be.