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The Nectar of Youth Part One--A Day at the Races

It was a fine autumn day. Though a tad cool, when the sun came out from behind the scattered clouds the air was pleasantly warm. Old Man Woolsely yesterday had suggested taking in the races and I readily agreed, being frustrated from my week's work at the counting house and mightily in need of diversion. He told me the section of the bleachers he would sit in, and bade me meet him there for the one o'clock start.

As it happened, I arrived first, sitting and fiddling with the handbill given me by a street urchin at the gates. It advertised a local pub with accommodation available by the hour, hardly the sort of thing I would admit I might go in for, though I patted the pocket where I carried the infrequently used prophylactic skin. I rolled and unrolled the handbill for something to do with my hands, and gazed about at the smattering of people as they filed in singly and in pairs—women in their hoop skirts and be-ribboned bonnets, carrying parasols against the sun; men in their dark day jackets and top hats. I always felt a bit inferior at the races, as I was not really of the class to be accepted here, but was glad Woolsely brought me up a bit in the world with his invitations. I suppose having worked for him for eight years now actually did bring me up a bit.

With Woolsely still not there, I abandoned my seat to seek out some peanuts or popcorn in the arcade below. Climbing the weathered wooden ...

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