the turf at Epsom, and in regattas at the Isle
of Wight, beside steeple-chases and skiff
matches, I have determined to regain my lost
honours and money."

He proceeds to explain that he had
bought the best horse of Lord Yarmouth, as
well as an extraordinary little mare, and had
ordered a clipper, to be built in Newport, on
the model of the America, and a gig from
Searle, on a plan of his own invention. With
the help of these, in the absence of his brother-
in-law, he hoped within fifteen days to have
in his drawing-room the gold cup of the
Derby and the silver oar of the Lambeth
regattas.

Ephraim Wheat, Esquire, fired by the
challenge, swallows the bait, and exclaims:

"Are you in condition?"

"Feel my arm," replies Tom Wild.

And Ephraim, " feeling with all the care of
a surgeon seeking for a fracture, finds
the biceps of his brother-in-law as hard as iron."
He takes leave, declaring that he shall delay
his departure to be present at the race.

A month after this conversation, Ephraim
Wheat, Esquire, in a cherry- coloured jacket,
leather breeches, and top-boots, galloped past
the Stand, beating his only adversary, Tom
Wild, by five lengths. Tom Wild had lost
four or five hundred guineas, and was
disgraced, as a jockey, among his friends, the
members of the Coventry; but—noble self-
sacrifice!—he had saved his brother-in-law
from Baltimore and Joe Erickson.

But even on the night after this victory,
amid the "howrahs" which accompanied each
libation of port and champagne from the cup
of the Derby, the vision of Joe Erickson, the
Backwoodsman of Baltimore, tormented the
peace of Ephraim Wheat. Soon he again
proposed to set out for America; but, the
night before his departure, he is informed by
his valet that Tom Wild had just launched a
gig fifty feet long, in order to challenge the
rowers of the College of Oxford—a college
we never heard of before. Forthwith
Ephraim Wheat orders his trunks to be
unpacked, and sends for Mr. Noulton the
boatbuilder.

The day of the Greenwich regatta arrives.
Tom Wild makes his light skiff fly over the
muddy waters of the Thames. No Ephraim
Wheat appears. The president begins to
call over the names of the entries. Suddenly
a murmur arises in the crowd on the banks
of the stream. Four stout watermen appear
bearing on their shoulders " a long pirogue
made of a single plank of mahogany bent by
steam." Two of the watermen walk into the
water, waist-deep, to float the wonderful
canoe. The other two lift into it a stout
fellow dressed in red flannel. " Hurrah!
for Ephraim Wheat!" cry the crowd. Tom
Wild first shouts with joy; then thinks
himself a fool to sacrifice his reputation to
his brother-in-law. The race begins. Tom
Wild rows his best, but Ephraim wins with
the impossible canoe by a quarter of a length;
and, for a month, forgets Joe Erickson.

At the end of that time he rushes in to Tom
Wild, haggard and wretched-looking, to
inform him that Joe Eriokson has succeeded
in splitting nine bullets on a knife, and that
he is determined to set out, fired by the
challenge, for America that night. Tom
Wild, ashamed of his double defeat at
Epsom and Greenwich, declares that he will
go too. They reach Liverpool by the
express train; and, finding that the packet
does not sail for six hours, enter a tavern
on the quay, of course order " des grogs"
and pile the grate with coal. They are
disturbed by the snoring of a man in a bearskin
jacket. They wake him up. The conversation
turns on pistol-shooting, and Bearskin
challenges Ephraim to hit the head of a nail
at fifteen paces. Ephraim fires first; and the
ball, just glancing oif the nail, is buried in the
plaster of the wall. "Not bad," cries the
stranger. " Joe Erickson will not have quite
robbed you of your money." "Joe Erickson?"
exclaims Ephraim and Tom; but, at that
moment, as the American is driving down
a ball with a mallet, the pistol explodes, and
kills the identical Joe dead as Julius Caesar.
"Devil! " exclaims Ephraim Wheat, Esquire,
"the charge was rammed too hard. He would
have missed the nail after all. You see, my
dear Tom, I have no luck."

But the story of Prince Trennenhir is still
more astounding than even that of Ephraim
Wheat, Esquire. The scene opens in the Isle
of Wight. It seems that the watermen hold
their meetings in the summer at Cowes
and Ryde, and that the club of Cowes takes
the name of the " Royal Yacht Squadron
House! " The salons of the Royal Squadron
are furnished with great elegance and
remarkable comfort. The servants wear a black
livery with the initials R. Y. S. H. engraved on
their buttons. The rooms are adorned with
portraits of celebrated champions, such as
Newel, Clasper, Combes; which we are
much astonished to hear, for we have always
thought that a yacht club is for
sailing, not for rowing matches. On the day
when the story opens, the Royal Yacht
Squadron is in a state of fearful agitation;
and no wonder. The Indian Prince
Trennenhir, with a wherry fifteen feet long, had
beaten Captain Gideon Headrig in an
outrigger thirty-two feet long, and had won
fifteen hundred pounds. After the race the
cornac, or attendant of the Prince, Monsieur
Barlett, collects the money, and master and
man retire to their hotel. The Prince was
about thirty-two years of age, of a copper
colour, with black eyes, and dressed in a white
turban, a robe of muslin, full trousers, and
morocco slippers. As soon as they are alone,
Trennenhir, smiling affectionately, points to
the door and the windows. Master Barlett
bows respectfully, pulls down the blinds,