Mrs. Anderson accepted the legend in deadly earnest. The next day, as I afterwards heard, she went into Kingston, purchased a silver collar with her name and address engraved thereon, obtained a lead, and appeared every afternoon on the promenade by the river with her priceless pet. When asked about its pedigree by friends, she explained that she was obliged to take great care of him, as he was a tripe-hound. It was Bessie Bellwood who eventually “gave the show away.” Making a call on Mrs. Anderson, and feeling a curiosity to ascertain why such a woman should make a pet of such an entirely hopeless hybrid, she asked about it, and received the usual reply, given with an air of complacent pride in possession. Bessie’s sense of humour was keen, and her expression of it tumultuous. She burst into a fit of irrepressible laughter. Explanations ensued. The tripe-hound was disposed of, and relations between Andy and his wife became somewhat strained. From the drawing-room, furnished in the most crowded fashion of Early Victorian period, we were conducted to the dining-room, to have what just at that time was becoming known as “a bottle of the boy.” Meeting with a bookmaker socially always meant in those days a bottle of champagne. The pencillers seemed to swim in it. It is different now. The simple and less expensive whisky-and-soda is regarded by the majority of the Ring as an excellent substitute for the exhilarating vintages of Ay and Épernay and Grammont. In his own house Andy was the soul of hospitality. He pressed us to remain to dinner. But we both had duties in town. However, we sat listening to his anecdotes and experiences for an hour or more. The most surprising of his reminiscences was that he, Andy Anderson the bookmaker, was the son of a Baptist minister! At first I was inclined to rate the confession with the legend of the tripe-hound, but the statement was one of fact. I commend it to the consideration of Nonconformist Turf-haters; they can take it either of two ways—as an inducement to regard charitably a calling which provides fine openings for the bright sons of Baptist ministers, or as an argument in favour of the _Paris Mutuels_, whereby the temptation to become bookmakers would be for ever removed from the precocious progeny of the “unco’ guid.”