“Behold,” said the Arch-philosopher, “a Royal Sport.  These are the Castorian Buck-hounds; that elderly gentleman is their master.  They pay him L1500 a-year to provide sport for Cockneys.  The sport consists in letting a deer out of a cart and chasing him till he nearly dies of fatigue.  Then they rope him and replace him in the cart.  After that they all drain their flasks, and consider themselves sportsmen.  Poor stuff, I think.”

“Of course,” said the Father, “you have nothing of that sort in England.”

[Illustration]

Mr. Punch was about to reply when a well-appointed four-in-hand drove up, and a courteous gentleman who handled the ribbons, offered the two strangers seats.

“I will take you,” he remarked, “to our great national race-meeting.  I assure you it is well worth seeing.”

The offer was accepted.  A pleasant drive brought them to the race-course.  To tell the truth it was much like most other race-courses.  A huge crowd was assembled, and the din of roaring thousands filled the air.  As they drove up a race had just started, and it was pretty to see the flash of the coloured caps and jackets in the sun.  The horses came nearer and nearer.  As they rounded the bend which led into the straight run in, the excitement became almost too great for Father TIME.  A torrent of sporting phrases broke from his lips.  One after another he backed every horse on the card for extravagant sums, and the bets were promptly, but methodically booked by Mr. Punch.  A handsome chestnut was leading by two good lengths, and apparently going strong, but about a hundred yards from the post he suddenly slowed down for some unaccountable reason.  In a moment a bay and a brown flew past him, there was a final roar and the race was over.  The bay had won, the brown was second, and the chestnut a length behind, was only third.  “Most extraordinary thing that,” said the Paternal One; “I made sure the chestnut would win.”

“That’s just it,” broke in the owner of the coach; “the public thought so too, and they’ve lost their money.”

“Just look at the mob,” he continued, “crowding round the jockey and the owner.  ’Gad, I shouldn’t care to be hooted like that.  But, of course, they’ve made their pile on it; never intended him to win.  Just sent him out for an airing.  Pretty bit of roping, wasn’t it?” he continued, addressing Mr. Punch.

But the Sportsman of Sportsmen only frowned.

“In the land we come from,” he rejoined, “the sport of racing is pure, and only the most high-minded men take part in it.  Their desire is not to make money, but merely to improve the breed of British horses.  I grieve to find that here the case is otherwise.  Reform the Sport, Sir; reform it, and make it worthy of Castorian gentlemen.”

His newly-found friend only smiled.

Then he winked as he hummed to himself the words of a song, which ran something like this:—­