I don't pretend to be a judge of a horse; except for their colour they all seem pretty much alike to me. Nor did I haunt race-courses much, people there are often very unrefined, and the Ring is extremely noisy and confusing. Once I heard a man offering to lay considerable odds against the Field, and I offered in a shy and hesitating manner, to accept them. He asked me what horse I backed? I said none in particular, the Field at large, all of them, for really the odds seemed very remarkable. But he did not accede to my wishes, and continued to shout in rather a discourteous manner. Once, too, when I had won some money, I lost it all on the way back, at a simple sort of game of cards, not nearly so complex and difficult as whist. One need only to say which of three cards, in the dealer's hand, was the card one had chosen. Yet here I was finally unsuccessful, though fortunate at first, and I am led to suppose that some kind of sleight of hand had been employed; or, perhaps, that the card of my choice had in some manner been smuggled away. However, once on a racecourse I saw a horse which I fancied on his merits. He looked very tall and strong, and was of a pretty colour, also he had a nice tail. He was hardly mentioned in the betting, and I got "on" at seventy to one, very reasonable odds. I backed him then, and he won, with great apparent ease, for his jockey actually seemed to be holding him in, rather than spurring him in the regrettable way which you sometimes see. But when I went to look for the person with whom I had made my bet, I was unable to find him anywhere, and I have never met him since. He had about him ten pounds, the amount of my bet, which he had insisted on receiving as a deposit, "not necessarily for publication," he said, "but as a guarantee of good faith." Race-courses are crowded, confusing places, and I doubt not, that so scrupulous a man was also looking for me. But we have never met. If this meets his eye, probably he will send a cheque for £700 to the office of _Mr. Punch_. I have often regretted the circumstance, as it was my most fortunate _coup_ on the Turf, and above all, reflected credit on my judgment of a horse. Conversing afterwards with a friend on this event, I expressed surprise that _my_ horse had not been a favourite, considering his agreeable exterior. "Why, you Juggins," he answered, "_Rumtifoo_ was a moral--everybody knew _that_; but everybody knew he wasn't meant; he was being kept for the Polehampton Stakes. He only won because he got the better of little BOTHERBY, his jockey, who couldn't hold him. Why, the crowd nearly murdered him, and his master sacked him on the spot--the little idiot!" I do not quite understand this explanation. Poor _Rumtifoo was_ "moral," like the "moral mare" mentioned by ARISTOTLE in the _Ethics_. He did his best to win, and he did win; what else can you ask for in a horse?