‘Jimmy’ Shrewin was not one of those philosophers who justify the great and growing game of betting on the ground that it improves the breed of an animal less and less in use. He justified it much more simply--he lived by it. And in the whole of his career of nearly twenty years since he made hole-and-corner books among the boys of London, he had never stood so utterly on velvet as that morning when his horse must win him five hundred pounds by merely losing. He had spent the night in London anticipating a fraction of his gains with George Pulcher at a music-hall. And, in a first-class carriage, as became an owner, he travelled down to Newmarket by an early special. An early special key turned in the lock of the carriage door, preserved their numbers at six, all professionals, with blank, rather rolling eyes, mouths shut or slightly fishy, ears to the ground; and the only natural talker a red-faced man, who had ‘been at it thirty years.’ Intoning the pasts and futures of this hell of a horse or that, even he was silent on the race in hand; and the journey was half over before the beauty of their own judgments loosened tongues thereon. George Pulcher started it. “I fancy Deerstalker,” he said; “he’s a hell of a horse.” “Too much weight,” said the red-faced man. “What about this Calliope?” “Ah!” said Pulcher. “D’you fancy your mare, Jimmy?” With all eyes turned on him, lost in his blue box-cloth coat, brown bowler, and cheroot smoke, ‘Jimmy’ experienced a subtle thrill. Addressing the space between the red-faced man and Pulcher, he said: “If she runs up to ’er looks.” “Ah!” said Pulcher, “she’s dark--nice mare, but a bit light and shelly.” “Lopez out o’ Calendar,” muttered the red-faced man. “Lopez didn’t stay, but he was the hell of a horse over seven furlongs. The Shirker ought to ’ave told you a bit.” ‘Jimmy’ did not answer. It gave him pleasure to see the red-faced man’s eye trying to get past, and failing. “Nice race to pick up. Don’t fancy the favourite meself; he’d nothin’ to beat at Ascot.” “Jenning knows what he’s about,” said Pulcher. Jenning! Before ‘Jimmy’s’ mind passed again that first sight of his horse, and the trainer’s smile, as if he--‘Jimmy’ Shrewin, who owned her--had been dirt. Tyke! To have the mare beaten by one of his! A deep, subtle vexation had oppressed him at times all these last days since George Pulcher had decided in favour of the mare’s running a bye. D----n George Pulcher! He took too much on himself! Thought he had ‘Jimmy’ Shrewin in his pocket! He looked at the block of crimson opposite. Aunt Sally! If George Pulcher could tell what was passing in his mind! But driving up to the course he was not above sharing a sandwich and a flask. In fact, his feelings were unstable and gusty--sometimes resentment, sometimes the old respect for his friend’s independent bulk. The dignity of ownership takes long to establish itself in those who have been kicked about.