Number three was Loerincz Berki, the most famous hunter and courser in the county, who told falsehoods as glibly as if he lied from dictation.

Number four was Friczi Kalotai, who had the bad habit of instantly purloining whatever came in his way, whether it were a pipe, a silver spoon, or a watch.
Nevertheless, this habit of his was not without its advantages, for whenever his acquaintances lost anything, they always knew exactly where to look for it, and would simply seize him by the neck and turn out his pockets, without offending him the least bit in the world.

Last of all came Bandi Kutyfalvi, the most magnificent tippler and swash-buckler in the realm, who, in his cups, invariably cudgelled all his boon companions; but he had the liquid capacity of a hippopotamus, and nobody had ever seen him dead-drunk in his life.
On the arrival of these distinguished guests, the brown musicians blew a threefold flourish with their trumpets, and the principal jurors measured the racecourse, at one end of which they stationed Mr.Varju with a red flag: this was the goal.

At the other end the horsemen were arranged in a row, having previously drawn their places by lot, and so that the gentry might survey the race from their carriages in the most comfortable manner possible.

The course was a thousand paces in length.
Master Jock was just about to signify, by a wave of his gold-headed cane, that the mortars were to be fired--the third report was to be the signal for the race to begin--when far away on the _puszta_ a young horseman was seen approaching at full tilt, cracking his whip loudly, and galloping in the direction of the competitors.