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Updated: May 6, 2025
A pleasant road, pleasantly wooded. No labourers working in the fields; all gone 't'races. The few late wenders of their way 't'races, who are yet left driving on the road, stare in amazement at the recluse who is not going 't'races. Roadside innkeeper has gone 't'races. Turnpike-man has gone 't'races. His thrifty wife, washing clothes at the toll-house door, is going 't'races' to-morrow.
Perhaps there may be no one left to take the toll to-morrow; who knows? Though assuredly that would be neither turnpike-like nor Yorkshire-like. The very wind and dust seem to be hurrying 't'races, as they briskly pass the only wayfarer on the road. In the distance, the Railway Engine, waiting at the town-end, shrieks despairingly.
Under every pole, and every shaft, and every horse, and every wheel as it would seem, the Gong-donkey metallically braying, when not struggling for life, or whipped out of the way. By one o'clock, all this stir has gone out of the streets, and there is no one left in them but Francis Goodchild. Francis Goodchild will not be left in them long; for, he too is on his way, 't'races.
A most beautiful sight, Francis Goodchild finds 't'races' to be, when he has left fair Doncaster behind him, and comes out on the free course, with its agreeable prospect, its quaint Red House oddly changing and turning as Francis turns, its green grass, and fresh heath.
Mr. Goodchild would appear to have been by no means free from lunacy himself at 't'races, though not of the prevalent kind. He is suspected by Mr. Idle to have fallen into a dreadful state concerning a pair of little lilac gloves and a little bonnet that he saw there. Mr.
Nothing but the difficulty of getting off the Line, restrains that Engine from going 't'races, too, it is very clear. At night, more Lunatics out than last night and more Keepers. The latter very active at the Betting Rooms, the street in front of which is now impassable. Mr. Palmer as before. Mr. Thurtell as before. Roar and uproar as before. Gradual subsidence as before.
Some Keepers flushed with drink, and some not, but all close and calculating. A vague echoing roar of 't'harses' and 't'races' always rising in the air, until midnight, at about which period it dies away in occasional drunken songs and straggling yells.
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