The measured mile was well-fenced and police-guarded; we flourished across its quietest part and entered the inner circle of the ring, the heart of the race-course. The turf was half hidden by a multitude of sportsmen and their attendant females. Black, and yellow, and brown, and copper, and red, and white people; patriarchs, and children in arms; giant negroes and dwarf half-formed half-breeds; programme sellers and vendors of the refreshing juice of the green cokernut. Buck niggers in white riding costumes, and shabby country folk in decayed khaki. Racing touts in militia blazers, and respectable tradesmen in neckties of red, white, and blue, and black bowler hats. Other things they wore of course, but their appearance was mainly Union Jack neckties and bowler hats. The black policemen in dark blue trousers, white tunics and snow-white helmets, looked impassively nervous and very conscious of dangerous power. Grinning blackies invited all and sundry to win their racing losings back by the old system of the three-card trick, but their customers consisted mainly of their decoy friends. In [Illustration: A COLOURED LADY ON A RACE-COURSE, JAMAICA] vain did the wily ones lose many dollars to their weary accomplices; the negro proper preferred the excitement of the race. We saw tables for the dice game, but no gamblers accepted the invitation of the greasy bankers. Groups of women and children sat under the shade of giant trees and made the day a perpetual picnic. The children were very happy, and their buxom mothers slept away the brief minutes in which they could not eat. The young black bucks ogled the young black maidens, but there were no ticklers, and the penny squirt was conspicuous only by its absence. By the weighing shed, and in the centre of the circle of interest, the grand stand, white painted and decked in royal purple, supported the weight of Government and officialdom. Some of those who live in King’s House whispered weighty small talk with the bloods of the army or the seniors of the hospital staff. In contrast with the brilliant blackness of the crowd of natives, the grand stand presented a tableau of white dresses and Paris hats and gay parasols. Field-glasses were raised, and waves of humour swept the grand stand crowd in Jamaica just as it happens in happy England. The racing horses and dwarf black jockeys paraded to the official box, and the white ladies flung their generous applause to the winners, just as it was in the days of old, and will be ever more. False starts were made by too eager jockeys who could not hope to win, and a discordant trumpet regularly screeched return as often as half the line of horses sprang forward before the starter’s flag had really dropped. These things happen everywhere; they are the gin and bitters of every race, the sportsman’s appetiser, the shower bath to prepare for the cold plunge. When the horses really got away, the heat vanished and pandemonium reigned to the tune of risen Africa.