“When you talk of tragedy,” answered Mr. Blades, “you mention the greatest heights of the profession. You are not built to play tragic parts, being far too thin and long in the legs, in my opinion. Besides, it is a calling in which only one in a thousand does any real good. I should advise you to stick to insurance and try to master the principles of it.” Of course I was getting on, but the lower walks of the science of insurance are tame, and it would not be interesting to explain rates and risks and tariffs and the explosive point of mineral oils and other important things, all of which have to be taken into account by the beginner. But the clerks were far more full of interest, and some were stern and ambitious men, who were determined sooner or later to get to the top of the office and become Secretary; and some were easy men without great ambition, but full of ideas, though the ideas were not about the science of risk from fire. There was one remarkable man, whose age was thirty-two, and he lived at Clapham in lodgings all alone. This man, whose name was Tomlinson, possessed enormous ability in the direction of racehorses. His knowledge of these famous quadrupeds was most extraordinary. If you looked into a paper and saw the name of a racehorse, Tomlinson would instantly tell you whether it was a male or female horse, and the name of its father and mother, or I should say sire and dam. He would also tell you its age and its owner and its trainer and the jockeys who had ridden it, and the races it had run and was going to run, and the money, if any, it had earned in stakes during its career. In this singular man’s desk were evidences of his passion for the turf. Nailed to the lid was the shoe or “racing plate” of a Derby winner, and arranged round it were photographic portraits of racehorses extracted from packets of cigarettes. A particular brand of cigarettes always contained these portraits, and so, naturally, Tomlinson smoked them. He seldom went to race-meetings himself, but read all the particulars of each race with great perseverance, in order to guide his future betting transactions. He had a Turf Agent and visited him frequently during the luncheon hour, and on the occasion of the classic races, such as the Derby and Oaks, or St. Leger, Tomlinson always arranged a sweepstake in the Country Department of the Apollo Fire Office and was well thought of for doing so. He said that if he had been blessed with a good income he should have become a “gentleman backer,” which is some particular order of turf-specialist; and if he had been born with real wealth, he should have been an owner of racehorses, and a member of the Jockey Club. As it was, he knew several jockeys—though, curiously enough, jockeys are not themselves members of this far-famed club.