It's like a betting-post at Newmarket.

How loud the people talk! What's the news?
Queen Anne dead, or is there another French Revolution, or a fixed duty on corn?
Reader, Mr.
Puffington's hounds have had a run, and the Flat Hat men are disputing it.
'Nothing of the sort! nothing of the sort!' exclaims Fossick, 'I know every yard of the country, and you can't make more nor eight of it anyhow, if eight.' 'Well, but I've measured it on the map,' replied the speaker (Charley Slapp himself), 'and it's thirteen, if it's a yard.' 'Then the country's grown bigger since my day,' rejoins Fossick, 'for I was dropped at Stubgrove, which is within a mile of where you found, and I've walked, and I've ridden, and I've driven every yard of the distance, and you can't make it more than eight, if it's as much.

Can you, Capon ?' exclaimed Fossick, appealing to another of the 'flat brims,' whose luminous face now shone through the fog.
'No,' replied Capon, adding, 'not so much, I should say.' Just then up trotted Frostyface with the hounds.
'Good morning, Frosty! good morning!' exclaim half-a-dozen voices, that it would be difficult to appropriate from the denseness of the fog.

Frosty and the whips make a general salute with their caps.
'Well, Frosty, I suppose you've heard what a run we had yesterday ?' exclaims Charley Slapp, as soon as Frosty and the hounds are settled.
'Had they, sir--had they ?' replies Frosty, with a slight touch of his cap and a sneer.

'Glad to hear it, sir--glad to hear it.