“And when a fellow finds himself always on the wrong side of the road,” said Beecher, who now fancied that he was taking a moralist's view of life, and spoke with a philosophic solemnity,--“I say, when a fellow sees that, do what he will, he's never on the right horse, he begins to be soured with the world, and to think that it's all a regular 'cross.' Not that I ever gave in. No! ask any of the fellows up at Newmarket--ask the whole ring--ask--” he was going to say Grog Davis, when he suddenly remembered the heavy judgment Conway had already fulminated on that revered authority, and then, quickly correcting himself, he said, “Ask any of the legs you like what stuff A. B. 's made of,--if he ain't hammered iron, and no mistake!” “But what do you mean when you say you never gave in?” asked Conway, half sternly. “What do I mean?” said Beecher, repeating the words, half stunned by the boldness of the question,--“what do I mean? Why, I mean that they never saw me 'down,'--that no man can say Annesley Beecher ever said 'die.' Have n't I had my soup piping hot,--spiced and peppered too! Was n't I in for a pot on Blue Nose, when Mope ran a dead heat with Belshazzar for the Cloudeslie,--fifteen to three in fifties twice over, and my horse running in bandages, and an ounce of corrosive sublimate in his stomach! Well, you 'd not believe it,--I don't ask any one to believe it that did n't see it,--but I was as cool as I am here, and I walked up to Lady Tinkerton's drag and ate a sandwich; and when she said, 'Oh! Mr. Beecher, do come and tell me what to bet on,' I said to her, 'Quicksilver's the fastest of metals, but don't back it just now.' They had it all over the course in half an hour: 'Quicksilver's the fastest of metals--'” “I'm afraid I don't quite catch your meaning.” “It was alluding to the bucketing, you know. They 'd just given Blue Nose corrosive sublimate, which is a kind of quicksilver.” “Oh, I perceive,” said Conway. “Good,--wasn't it?” said Beecher, chuckling. “Let A. B. alone to 'sarve them out,'--that's what all the legs said!” And then he heaved a little sigh, as though to say that, after all, even wit and smartness were only a vanity and a vexation of spirit, and that a “good book” was better than them all. “I detest the whole concern,” said Conway. “So long as gentlemen bred and trained to run their horses in honorable rivalry, it was a noble sport, and well became the first squirearchy of the world; but when it degenerated into a field for every crafty knave and trickster,--when the low cunning of the gambler succeeded to the bold daring of the true lover of racing,--then the turf became no better than the _rouge et noir_ table, without even the poor consolation of thinking that chance was any element in the result.” “Why, what would you have? It's a game where the best player wins, that's all,” broke in Beecher.