Dick said, "Maybe; but he's got no grit. With to-day's big field, on a course like this, He will come to grief with that funk of his. Well. It's queer, to me, that they've brought him on. It's Kubbadar's race. Good morning, John." When Dick had gone from the stable-yard, John wrote a note on a racing card. He said, "Since Stewart has placed the com., It's Mr. Cothill he got it from. Now why should that nice young man go blind And back his horse? Has he lost his mind? Such a nice young fellow, so civil-spoken, Should have more sense than to get him broken, For broken he'll be as sure as eggs If he puts his money on horses' legs. And to trust to this, who's a nice old thing, But can no more win than a cow can sing. Well, they say that wisdom is dearly bought, A world of pain for a want of thought; But why should he back what stands no chance, No more than the Rowley Mile's in France? Why didn't he talk of it first with me? Well, Lord, we trainers can let it be, Why can't these owners abstain the same? It can't be aught but a losing game. He'll finish ninth; he'll be forced to sell His horse, his stud, and his home as well; He'll lose his lady, and all for this A daft belief in that horse of his. It's nothing to me, a man might say, That a rich young fool should be cast away, Though what he does with his own, in fine, Is certainly no concern of mine. I'm paid to see that his horse is fit, I can't engage for an owner's wit. For the heart of a man may love his brother, But who can be wise to save another? Souls are our own to save from burning, We must all learn how, and pay for learning. And now, by the clock, that bell that went Was the Saddling Bell for the first event. Since the time comes close, it will save some swearing If we get beforehand, and start preparing." The roads were filled with a drifting crowd, Many mouth-organs droned aloud, A couple of lads in scarlet hats, Yellow trousers and purple spats, Dragged their banjos, wearily eyeing Passing brakes full of sportsmen Hi-ing. Then with a long horn blowing a glory Came the four-in-hand of the young Lord Tory, The young Lord's eyes on his leader's ears And the blood-like team going by to cheers. Then in a brake came cheerers and hooters Peppering folk from tin peashooters; The Green Man's Friendly in bright mauve caps Followed fast in the Green Man's traps, The crowd made way for the traps to pass Then a drum beat up with a blare of brass, Medical students smart as paint Sang gay songs of a sad complaint.