In a moment a
bay and a brown flew past him, there was a final roar and the race was
over. The bay had won, the brown was second, and the chestnut a length
behind, was only third. "Most extraordinary thing that," said the
Paternal One; "I made sure the chestnut would win."
"That's just it," broke in the owner of the coach; "the public thought
so too, and they've lost their money."
"Just look at the mob," he continued, "crowding round the jockey and
the owner. 'Gad, I shouldn't care to be hooted like that. But, of
course, _they've_ made their pile on it; never intended him to win.
Just sent him out for an airing. Pretty bit of roping, wasn't it?" he
continued, addressing _Mr. Punch_.
But the Sportsman of Sportsmen only frowned.
"In the land we come from," he rejoined, "the sport of racing is pure,
and only the most high-minded men take part in it. Their desire is not
to make money, but merely to improve the breed of British horses. I
grieve to find that here the case is otherwise. Reform the Sport, Sir;
reform it, and make it worthy of Castorian gentlemen."
His newly-found friend only smiled.
Then he winked as he hummed to himself the words of a song, which ran
something like this:--
"Come, sportsmen all, give ear to me, I'll tell you what occurred,
But of course you won't repeat it when I've told you;
For with honourable gentlemen I hope that mum's the word,
When a horse you've laid your money on has sold you.
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