So far, the picture of Doncaster on the occasion of its great sporting anniversary, offers probably a general representation of the social condition of the town, in the past as well as in the present time.The sole local phenomenon of the current year, which may be considered as entirely unprecedented in its way, and which certainly claims, on that account, some slight share of notice, consists in the actual existence of one remarkable individual, who is sojourning in Doncaster, and who, neither directly nor indirectly, has anything at all to do, in any capacity whatever, with the racing amusements of the week.Ranging throughout the entire crowd that fills the town, and including the inhabitants as well as thevisitors, nobody is to be found altogether disconnected with the business of the day, excepting this one unparalleled man.He does not bet on the races, like the sporting men.He does not assist the races, like the jockeys, starters, judges, and grooms.He does not look on at the races, like Mr.Goodchild and his fellow-spectators.He does not profit by the races, like the hotel-keepers and the tradespeople.He does not minister to the necessities of the races, like the booth-keepers, the postilions, the waiters, and the hawkers of Lists.He does not assist the attractions of the races, like the actors at the theatre, the riders at the circus, or the posturers at the Poses Plastiques.Absolutely and literally, he is the only individual in Doncaster who stands by the brink of the full-flowing race- stream, and is not swept away by it in common with all the rest of his species.Who is this modern hermit, this recluse of the St.Leger-week, this inscrutably ungregarious being, who lives apart from the amusements and activities of his fellow-creatures? Surely, there is little difficulty in guessing that clearest and easiest of all riddles.Who could he be, but Mr.Thomas Idle?

Thomas had suffered himself to be taken to Doncaster, just as he would have suffered himself to be taken to any other place in the habitable globe which would guarantee him the temporary possession of a comfortable sofa to rest his ankle on.Once established at the hotel, with his leg on one cushion and his back against another, he formally declined taking the slightest interest in any circumstance whatever connected with the races, or with the people who were assembled to see them.Francis Goodchild, anxious that the hours should pass by his crippled travelling- companion as lightly as possible, suggested that his sofa should be moved to the window, and that he should amuse himself by looking out at the moving panorama of humanity, which the view from it of the principal street presented.Thomas, however, steadily declined profiting by the suggestion.

'The farther I am from the window,' he said, 'the better, Brother Francis, I shall be pleased.I have nothing in common with the one prevalent idea of all those people who are passing in the street.Why should I care to look at them?'

'I hope I have nothing in common with the prevalent idea of a great many of them, either,' answered Goodchild, thinking of the sporting gentlemen whom he had met in the course of his wanderings about Doncaster.'But, surely, among all the people who are walking by the house, at this very moment, you may find - '

'Not one living creature,' interposed Thomas, 'who is not, in one way or another, interested in horses, and who is not, in a greater or less degree, an admirer of them.Now, I hold opinions in reference to these particular members of the quadruped creation, which may lay claim (as I believe) to the disastrous distinction of being unpartaken by any other human being, civilised or savage, over the whole surface of the earth.Taking the horse as an animal in the abstract, Francis, I cordially despise him from every point of view.'

'Thomas,' said Goodchild, 'confinement to the house has begun to affect your biliary secretions.I shall go to the chemist's and get you some physic.'