“You and I should see more of one another,” Sam answered, with gratification beaming in his very keen and lively eyes; “and if ever you would put a bit of Uncle Corny’s tin upon any tit at long odds, come to me. The finest tip in England free, gratis, and for nothing. But I called you in for a different sort of tip. When I was at the corner this afternoon, who should I see but Sir Cumberleigh Hotchpot? I dare say you may have heard of him. No? Very well, that proves just what I was saying. You are as green as a grasshopper looking at a cuckoo. ‘Pot,’ as we call him—and it fits him well, for his figure is that, and his habits are black—is one of the best-known men in London, and one of the worst to have much to do with. ‘Holloa, Sam,’ he says, ‘glad to see you. What’ll you take for your old _Sinner_ now?’ _Sinner_, you must know, is my old mare _Cinnaminta_, the dam of more winners than any other mare alive; and the old rogue knows well enough that I would sooner sell my shadow, even if he had sixpence to put on it. He gives himself out to be rolling in money, but all he ever rolls in is the gutter. Well, sir, we got on from one thing to another; and by-and-by I gave him just a little rub about a hatful of money I had won of him at Chester, and never seen the colour of. ‘All right,’ he says, ‘down upon the nail next week. Haven’t you heard what’s up with me?’ So I told him no, and he falls to laughing, enough to shake the dye out of his grizzly whiskers. ‘Going to buckle to. By Gosh, I mean it,’ says he; ‘and the sweetest young filly as ever looked through a riband. Rejoices in the name of Kitty Fairthorn, just the very name for the winner of the Oaks. Ha, ha, wish me joy, old chap. She was down your way, I am told, last week. But I had spotted her before that, Sam.’ I was thrown upon my haunches, as you may fancy, Kit; but I did not let him see it; though to think of old Crumbly Pot going in for such a stunner—‘Rhino, no doubt,’ I says; and he says, ‘By the bucketful! Her dad is a buffer who can sit down and coin it in batteries. And only this kid to put it on; the others belong to a different stable. Think of coming for the honeymoon, down to your place. They tell me you keep the big crib empty.’ Well I only shook my head at that, for the old rogue never pays his rent; and I asked him when it was to be pulled off. ‘Pretty smart,’ he said; but the day not named, and he must go first to Lincolnshire, to see about his property there; which I happen to know is up the spout to its outside value, though he always talks big on the strength of it. And no doubt he has got over your grand Professor, with his baronetcy and his flourishing estates. That’s about the tune of it, you may swear, Kit. Well, how do you like my yarn, my boy?”