"Oh no, sir; he beat the cracks, beat the favourites, and took in all the knowing ones. I always said there was something about that there 'oss, sir, that I didn't understand and nobody couldn't understand, sir." I was absolutely dumbfounded, knowing very little about "favourites" or "cracks." My groom I knew I could rely upon, for he always seemed to be the very soul of honour. I thought at first he might have been misled in some Bromley taproom, but afterwards found that it was all true--he had heard it from the owner himself, in whom the public seemed to place confidence, for they laid very long odds against Dreadnought. The animal was famous, but not in that name; he had, like most honest persons, an alias. How he achieved his victory is uncertain; one thing, however, is certain--it must have been a startling surprise to Dreadnought to find himself in a race at all, and still more astonishing to find himself in front. "How many ran?" I asked. "Three, sir; two of 'em crack horses." At this time I took little interest in pedigrees, and knew nothing of the "cracks," so the names of those celebrated animals which Dreadnought had beaten are forgotten. One of them, it appeared, had been heavily backed at 9 to 4, but Dreadnought did not seem to care for that; he ran, not on his public form, but on his merits. My eyes were opened at last, and the whole mystery was solved when James told me that _all three horses belonged to the same owner_! From that time to this I never heard what became of Dreadnought, and never saw the man who bought him, even in the dock. It is strange, however, that animals so true and faithful as dogs and horses should be instruments so perverted as to make men liars and rogues; while for intelligence many of them could give most of us pounds and pass us easily at the winning-post. Speaking of dogs reminds me of dog-stealers and _their_ ways, of which some years ago I had a curious experience. I have told the story before, but it has become altered, and the true one has never been heard since. Indeed, no story is told correctly when its copyright is infringed. There was a man at the time referred to known as old Sam Linton, the most extraordinary dog-fancier who ever lived, and the most curious thing about him was that he always fancied other people's dogs to his own. He was a remarkable dog-_finder_, too. In these days of dogs' homes the services of such a man as Linton are not so much in request; but he was a home in himself, and did a great deal of good in his way by restoring lost dogs to their owners; so that it became almost a common question in those days, when a lady lost her pet, to ask if she had made any inquiry of old Sam Linton. He was better than the wise woman who indicated in some mysterious jargon where the stolen watch might or might not be found in the distant future, for old Sam _brought_ you the very dog on a _specified day_! The wise woman never knew where the lost property was; old Sam did.