storm, but with loss of sails and rigging, and great damage to cargo. Ah me! it's useless to brood over the irretrievable past, except as an experience and incentive for the future. CHAPTER VIII. FLOWERY FENTON."- LEAVING the purlieus of Capel Court with painful convictions in my mind that the events of the last forty-eight hours might entail a daily return to the Stock Exchange for a few weeks at least, I sauntered with solemn countenance past the Mansion House, and crossing over to King William Street, encountered an old acquaintance of mine, a man well known on the turf, as also in certain City circles. His personal appearance was somewhat remarkable. Of the middle height, stout, broadshouldered, about sixty years of age, he affected a somewhat semi-horsey, semi-country squire sort of costume, with a broad-brimmed hat, and a rubicund termination to his bulbous proboscis, indicating that whilst oft appearing as a votary before the presiding genius of the Isthmian games, he did not neglect to offer up frequent sacrifices upon the altar of the rosy god Bacchus. But his chief peculiarities were a singularly set smile which he seemed to wear as a mask over his passion-lined face when in public, and the careful fashion in which he trimmed his long white beard, descending down almost to his waist. His habitual address was quiet, but his flow of compliments so incessant, that it earned for him years ago the soubriquet of "Flowery Fenton." He was just the sort of man it was more politic to have as a friend than an enemy, but never to be off your guard with. A shrewd calculator of human frailties, his knowledge of horseflesh, and considerable acquaintance amongst the ring and the trainers, stood him oft in good stead, and brought many a hundred pounds to his share thereby, which a less unscrupulous man would have failed to put in his pocket. "Who would have thought of meeting you in this money-grubbing corner of our Modern Babylon' ?" quoth Fenton, with a warm shake of both hands, and an extra gleam of polish on the surface of the smiling mask. "Had it been at the end of the Abingdon Mile, or in the paddock at Goodwood, I could have understood it better." "No good, Fenton, I assure you," was my reply. "I have just been calling on my stockbroker: so now you can imagine how pleasant my visit has been." Ah, well, friend Whitebelt; I understand. 'Burnt fingers dread fierce fires;' but, as the great ancient said (at least, as we were taught at school), Nemo mortalium omnibus horis sapit.' "But you remember also, Fenton, that old Tacitus left us on record, Etiam fortes viri subitos torrentur:' and I doubt much whether he had ever seen a panic on the Stock Exchange." "Well answered, most classical swell," said Fenton; "and now come and have luncheon with me. There is a capital place close by, the only house in London in which to get real Indian curry, and an excellent Italian chef can do you an entrée, or a bit of maccaroni equal to any club at the West End. It's some time since we met, and there's a busy time coming on now in racing circles. I have plenty to tell you, my friend, as well as a good stock of patience to listen to your news." "Good; let it be so," said I. "They have hit me rather hard to-day, and a little cheerful chat will do me good." A few doors down King William Street we turned into a restaurant, where Fenton was evidently well known, and he ordered two portions of Madras curry, winking knowingly at the brisk, many-tongued waiter to bring us a bottle of that champagne. The curry and the wine fully justified the encomiums of my entertainer, who finished up an excellent little feed with a dish of "Maccaroni au gratin," browned to the exact turn. "Nothing like a good glass of 'Fizz' to lubricate the tongue-strings, and make one forget present troubles," said Fenton, warming up almost to geniality. "You remember the |