“Abolish Betting!!!  Wot next, I wonder?  Wot with County Councils, dunderheaded Deppyties, and Swells who do the Detective bizness in their own droring-rooms, pooty soon there won’t be a safe look in for a party as wants to do a nice little flutter—­unless, of course, he’s a Stock-Exchange spekkylator, or a hinvester in South American Mines. Then he can plunge, and hedge, and jockey the jugginses as much as he’s a mind to.  Wonder how that bloomin’ French Bourse ’ud get along without a bit o’ the pitch-and-toss barney, as every man as is a man finds the werry salt of life.  Yah!  This here Moral game is a gettin’ played down too darned low for anythink.  And wot’s it mean, arter all?  Why, ‘No Naughtiness, except for the Nobs!’ That’s about the exact size of it, and it’s blazing beastly, BOB!

“Only one of the dashed Deppyties talked a mossel o’ sense, fur as I see.  A certain MOSSOO DER KERJEGU, a Republican, too, bless his boko! said as ’races were essential to ’orsebreeding, and that without betting there would be no races.’  O.K. you are, MOSSOO DER K.!  And then they up and chuck hus Bookies!  No bookies, no betting; no betting, no races; no racing, no ’osses; no ’osses, no nothink!  That’s how it runs, BOB, or I’m a sossidge!

“But this here bloomin’ Republick is too rediklus for anythink.  Look at the kiddish kick-up along o’ the visit of the Hempress!  Why, if we ’ad that duffer, DEROULEDE, on Newmarket ’Eath, we should just duck him in a ’orsepond, like a copped Welsher.  Here they washup him, or else knuckle under to him, like a skeery Coster’s missus when her old man’s on the mawl, and feels round arter her ribs with his bloomin’ high-lows. That’s yer high-polite French Artists and brave booky-banishin’ Dippyties!  Yah!

“’Owsomever, I suppose, BOB, I must clear out of this.  MOSSOO CONSTANS, he said, ’if the Bill were carried there would be an end to bookmakers.’  And it was carried, by 340 mugs against 144 right ’uns.  And arter all me and my sort has done for Parry!  It’s mean, that’s wot it is, BOB.  P’raps they’ll chuck British jockeys next!  Much good their Grong Pree, ancetrer, will be then, my boy. Our ’osses, our jockeys, and our bookies has bin the making of French Sport,—­and werrv nice little pickings there’s bin out of it take it all round.  Wot’ll Ler Hig Life, and Hart, and Leagues o’ Patriots, and miles o’ bullyvards, and COOK’s Tourists and Awful Towers do for Parry without hus, I wonder?  We shall see!  Ah, Madame lar Republick, maybe you’ll be sorry, you and your bullyin’ jondarms, for chucking o’ me afore you’re through.  As MAT MOPUS put it:—­

  It was all werry well to dissemble yer love,
  But wy did yer kick me down-stairs?

Chucked it is, though, and I shall probably see yer next week, BOB.  Thanks be, the Flat Season’s at ’and!  Arter all, there’s no place like ’ome!  No!—­