"Would looks were deeds, for he looks a joy. He's come on well in the last ten days." The horse looked up at the note of praise, He fixed his eye upon Harding's eye, Then he put all thought of Harding by, Then his ears went back and he clipped all clean The manger's well where his oats had been. John Harding walked to the stable-yard, His brow was worried with thinking hard. He thought, "His sire was a Derby winner, His legs are steel, and he loves his dinner, And yet of old when they made him race, He sulked or funked like a real disgrace; Now for man or horse, I say, it's plain, That what once he's been, he'll be again. For all his looks, I'll take my oath That horse is a cur, and slack as sloth. He'll funk at a great big field like this, And the lad won't cure that sloth of his, He stands no chance, and yet Bungay says He's been backed all morning a hundred ways. He was twenty to one, last night, by Heaven: Twenty to one and now he's seven. Well, one of these fools whom fortune loves Has made up his mind to go for the gloves; But here's Dick Cappell to bring me news." Dick Cappell came from a London Mews, His fleshless face was a stretcht skin sheath For the narrow pear of the skull beneath. He had cold blue eyes, and a mouth like a slit, With yellow teeth sticking out from it. There was no red blood in his lips or skin, He'd a sinister, hard, sharp soul within. Perhaps, the thing that he most enjoyed Was being rude when he felt annoyed. He sucked his cane, he nodded to John, He asked, "What's brought your lambkin on?" John said, "I had meant to ask of you, Who's backing him, Dick, I hoped you knew." Dick said, "Pill Stewart has placed the money. I don't know whose." John said, "That's funny." "Why funny?" said Dick; but John said naught; He looked at the horse's legs and thought. Yet at last he said, "It beats me clean, But whoever he is, he must be green. There are eight in this could give him a stone, And twelve should beat him on form alone. The lad can ride, but it's more than riding That will give the bay and the grey a hiding." Dick sucked his cane and looked at the horse With "Nothing's certain on Compton Course. He looks a peach. Have you tried him high?" John said, "You know him as well as I; What he has done and what he can do. He's been ridden to hounds this year or two. When last he was raced, he made the running, For a stable companion twice at Sunning. He was placed, bad third, in the Blowbury Cup And second at Tew with Kingston up. He sulked at Folkestone, he funked at Speen, He baulked at the ditch at Hampton Green, Nick Kingston thought him a slug and cur, 'You must cut his heart out to make him stir.' But his legs are iron; he's fine and fit."