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“Well, did you hear anything?” they say.

The Oracle talks low and confidentially.

“The crowd that have got the favourite tell me they’re not afraid of anything but Royal Scot,” he says. “I think we’d better put a bit on both.”

“What did the Royal Scot crowd say?” asks an admirer deferentially.

“Oh, they’re going to try and win. I saw the stable commissioner, and he told me they were going to put a hundred on him. Of course, you needn’t say I told you, ’cause I promised him I wouldn’t tell.” And the satellites beam with admiration of the Oracle, and think what a privilege it is to go to the races with such a knowing man.

They contribute their mites to the general fund, some putting in a pound, others half a sovereign, and the Oracle takes it into the ring to invest, half on the favourite and half on Royal Scot. He finds that the favourite is at two to one, and Royal Scot at threes, eight to one being offered against anything else. As he ploughs through the ring, a Whisperer (one of those broken-down followers of the turf who get their living in various mysterious ways, but partly by giving “tips” to backers) pulls his sleeve.

“What are you backing?” he says.

“Favourite and Royal Scot,” says the Oracle.

“Put a pound on Bendemeer,” says the tipster. “It’s a certainty. Meet me here if it comes off, and I’ll tell you something for the next race. Don’t miss it now. Get on quick!”

The Oracle is humble enough before the hanger-on of the turf. A bookmaker roars “10 to 1 Bendemeer;” he suddenly fishes out a sovereign of his own — and he hasn’t money to spare, for all his knowingness — and puts it on Bendemeer. His friends’ money he puts on the favourite and Royal Scot as arranged. Then they all go round to watch the race.

The horses are at the post; a distant cluster of crowded animals with little dots of colour on their backs. Green, blue, yellow, purple, French grey, and old gold, they change about in a bewildering manner, and though the Oracle has a cheap pair of glasses, he can’t make out where Bendemeer has got to. Royal Scot and the favourite he has lost interest in, and secretly hopes that they will be left at the post or break their necks; but he does not confide his sentiment to his companions.

They’re off! The long line of colours across the track becomes a shapeless clump and then draws out into a long string. “What’s that in front?” yells someone at the rails. “Oh, that thing of Hart’s,” says someone else. But the Oracle hears them not; he is looking in the mass of colour for a purple cap and grey jacket, with black arm bands. He cannot see it anywhere, and the confused and confusing mass swings round the turn into the straight.

Then there is a babel of voices, and suddenly a shout of “Bendemeer! Bendemeer!” and the Oracle, without knowing which is Bendemeer, takes up the cry feverishly. “Bendemeer! Bendemeer!” he yells, waggling his glasses about, trying to see where the animal is.

“Where’s Royal Scot, Charley? Where’s Royal Scot?” screams one of his friends, in agony. “‘Ow’s he doin’?”

“No ‘ope!” says the Oracle, with fiendish glee. “Bendemeer! Bendemeer!”

The horses are at the Leger stand now, whips are out, and three horses seem to be nearly abreast; in fact, to the Oracle there seem to be a dozen nearly abreast. Then a big chestnut sticks his head in front of the others, and a small man at the Oracle’s side emits a deafening series of yells right by the Oracle’s ear:

“Go on, Jimmy! Rub it into him! Belt him! It’s a cake-walk! A cake-walk! The big chestnut, in a dogged sort of way, seems to stick his body clear of his opponents, and passes the post a winner by a length. The Oracle doesn’t know what has won, but fumbles with his book. The number on the saddle-cloth catches his eye — No. 7; he looks hurriedly down the page. No. 7 — Royal Scot. Second is No. 24 — Bendemeer. Favourite nowhere.