That I should have been asked to be present on this historic occasion was extremely gratifying, but I could find no reason for the honour conferred upon me, except that it ’might be because I had always endeavoured to make myself agreeable—­a faculty, if it be a faculty, most invaluable in all the relations and circumstances of life.  I was flattered by the compliment, because in reality I was the guest of all the really great men of the day.

But a still more striking honour was in store.  I was called upon to respond for somebody or something; I don’t remember what it was to this day, nor had I the faintest notion what I ought to say.  I was perfectly bewildered, and the first utterance caused a roar of laughter.  I did not at that time know the reason.  It is of no consequence whether you know what you are talking about in an after-dinner speech or not, for say what you may, hardly anybody listens, and if they do few will understand the drift of your observations.  You get a great deal of applause when you stand up, and a great deal more when you sit down.  I seemed to catch my audience quite accidentally by using a word tabooed at that time in sporting circles, because it represented the blacklegs of the racecourse, and was used as a nickname for rascaldom.  “Gentlemen,” I said, “I have been unexpectedly called upon my legs—­” Then I stammered an apology for using the word in that company, and the laughter was unbounded.  Next morning all the sporting papers reported it as an excellent joke, although the last person who saw the joke was myself.

After dinner we adjourned to the new premises, which included a betting-room, since christened “place,” by interpretation of a particular statute by myself and others.  Oh the castigation I received from the Jockey Club on that account!  Whether the monitory fox was anywhere within the precincts I do not know, but I missed him at that time, and attributed to his absence the lapse from virtue which undermined my previous resolution, and in a moment undid the merits of exemplary years.  However, it brought me to myself, and was, after all, a “blessing in disguise”—­and pleasant to think of.

We were in the betting-room, and there was Harry Hill, my genial old friend, who had advised me to take care, and never to bet, “because we know our business better than you do.”  Alas! amidst the hubbub and excitement, to say nothing of the joviality of everybody and the excellence of the champagne, I said in a brave tone,—­

“Come now, Mr. Hill, I must have a bet, on the opening of the new Tattersalls.  I will give you evens for a fiver on ——­ for the Derby!”

Alas! my friend, who ought to have known better, forgot the good advice he had given me only a few years before, and I, heedless of consequences in my hilarity, repeated the offer of evens on the favourite.

“Done!” said two or three, and amongst them Hill.  I might have repeated the offer and accepted the bet over and over again, so popular was it.  “Done, done, done!” everywhere.