'I'll take your five-and-twenty to one about Brother to Bluenose,' whispers Spavin.
'Can't do it at the price,' Cockspur says, wagging his head ominously.
The betting-book is always present in the minds of those unfortunate youngsters.

I think I hate that work even more than the 'Peerage.' There is some good in the latter--though, generally speaking, a vain record: though De Mogyns is not descended from the giant Hogyn Mogyn; though half the other genealogies are equally false and foolish; yet the mottoes are good reading--some of them; and the book itself a sort of gold-laced and livened lackey to History, and in so far serviceable.

But what good ever came out of, or went into, a betting-book?
If I could be Caliph Omar for a week, I would pitch every one of those despicable manuscripts into the flames; from my Lord's, who is 'in' with Jack Snaffle's stable, and is over-reaching worse-informed rogues and swindling greenhorns, down to Sam's, the butcher-boy's, who books eighteenpenny odds in the tap-room, and 'stands to win five-and-twenty bob.' In a turf transaction, either Spavin or Cockspur would try to get the better of his father, and, to gain a point in the odds, victimise his best friends.

One day we shall hear of one or other levanting; an event at which, not being sporting men, we shall not break our hearts.
See--Mr.Spavin is settling his toilette previous to departure; giving a curl in the glass to his side-wisps of hair.

Look at him! It is only at the hulks, or among turf-men, that you ever see a face so mean, so knowing, and so gloomy.
A much more humane being among the youthful Clubbists is the Lady-killing Snob.