upon the spike of suspense, since Mr Bhosh's success was a sine quâ non to their union. Suddenly came the glad shout: "The Favourite takes the cake with a canter!" and Duchess Dickinson became pallid with anguish, for, rich as she was, she could ill afford to become the loser of a cool million.
The shout was strictly veracious, for Mr Bhosh was ruling the roast by half-a-head, and Poojah was correspondingly behind. "Macte virtute!" cried Princess Petunia, in the silvery tones of a highly-bred bell, while she violently agitated her sun-umbrella: "O my beloved Bindabun, do not fall behind at eleven o'clock!"
And, as though in answer to this appeal (which he did not overhear), she beheld her triumphant suitor saluting the empress of his soul with uplifted jockey-cap.
Alack! it was the fatal piece of politeness; since, to avoid falling off, he was compelled to moderate the speed of his racer while performing it, and Juggins, either repenting
