A week before the race--with Calliope at nine to one, and very little doing--young Colquhoun went up to town, taking with him the accumulated support of betting Oxford. That evening she stood at sixes. Next day the public followed on. George Pulcher took advantage. In this crisis of the proceedings he acted on his own initiative. The mare went back to eights, but the deed was done. He had laid off the whole bally lot, including the stake money. He put it to ‘Jimmy’ that evening in a nutshell. “We pick up a thousand, and the Liverpool as good as in our pocket. I’ve done worse.” ‘Jimmy’ grunted out: “She could ’a won.” “Not she. Jenning knows--and there’s others in the race. This Wasp is goin’ to take a lot of catchin’, and Deerstalker’s not out of it. He’s a hell of a horse, even with that weight.” Again ‘Jimmy’ grunted, slowly sucking down his gin and bitters. Sullenly he said: “Well, I don’ want to put money in the pocket of young ‘Cocoon’ and his crowd. Like his impudence, backin’ my horse as if it was his own.” “We’ll ’ave to go and see her run, Jimmy.” “Not me,” said ‘Jimmy.’ “What! First time she runs! It won’t look natural.” “No,” repeated ‘Jimmy.’ “I don’t want to see ’er beat.” George Pulcher laid his hand on a skinny shoulder. “Nonsense, Jimmy. You’ve got to, for the sake of your reputation. You’ll enjoy seein’ your mare saddled. We’ll go up over night. I shall ’ave a few pound on Deerstalker. I believe he can beat this Diamond Stud. And you leave Docker to me; I’ll ’ave a word with him at Gatwick to-morrow. I’ve known ’im since he was that ’igh; an’ ’e ain’t much more now.” “All right!” growled ‘Jimmy.’ V The longer you can bet on a race the greater its fascination. Handicappers can properly enjoy the beauty of their work; clubmen and oracles of the course have due scope for reminiscence and prophecy; bookmakers in lovely leisure can indulge a little their own calculated preferences, instead of being hurried to soulless conclusions by a half-hour’s market on the course; the professional backer has the longer in which to dream of his fortune made at last by some hell of a horse--spotted somewhere as interfered with, left at the post, running green, too fat, not fancied, backward--now bound to win this hell of a race. And the general public has the chance to read the horses’ names in the betting news for days and days; and what a comfort that is!