“Have you any reason for thinking so?”

“Well, there was a man in here who has a son a policeman close by Jobson’s stables, and he tells me that everybody in the neighbourhood has been backing Pudding down to their last spoon.  That looks as if word had been passed round that it was going to win.”  The racing man passes out and looks in at the “Pink Elephant” to see if his friend is there.  He is seated at a little table in an upstairs parlour with four others, all drinking whisky and exchanging tips.  They belong to the most credulous race of men alive.  They are all believers in what is called information, and information is simply the betting man’s name for gossip.  The friend is speaking in a low but excited voice to his companions, who crouch over towards him in order to catch information not meant for the rest of the room.  He tells how he had just been in to buy a paper at his newsagent’s, and how his newsagent had been calling on his solicitor that morning, and the solicitor told him that the caller who had just left as he came in was Gordon, the owner of Cutandrun, and Gordon said that Cutandrun was the biggest thing that had ever come into his hands.  The buzz-buzz of talk in the smoke-filled room and the clatter of passing carts makes it difficult to hear him, but the others lean over the table with red, intent faces, like men among whom an apostle has come.  They do not stay long over their drinks, as they have not much time for social pleasures.  They swallow their whisky with a quick gesture look at their watches, stand up hurriedly and part with handshakes.

Then comes a drive to the railway station where race-cards are being sold.  The racing-man buys a “card” and several papers.  He looks down the lists of the horses again in the train, and tries to make up his mind whether to take the tobacconist’s tip and back Green Cloak for the first race.  He believes greatly in breeding, and by far the best-bred horse in the race is Liberal, who has three Derby winners in his pedigree.  Then there is Red Rose, who created a sensation a month ago by winning two races in a day.  He decides to do nothing till he sees the horses themselves.  He pays thirty shillings at the turnstile of the race-course and is admitted to the grand stand.  Already one or two bookmakers are shouting from their stands, and some of them have chalked up on blackboards the odds they are willing to give in the big race.  He looks at the board and sees that he can get twenties against Cutandrun.  A five-pound note might bring him a hundred pounds.  On the other hand, if Oily Hair was going to win, he wouldn’t like to miss it.  The bookmakers are offering fives against it.  Holy Saint is hot favourite at two to one.  That alone makes him impatient of it, for he dislikes backing favourites.  He prefers the big risks, with great scoops if he wins.  However, he will make up his mind later.  Meanwhile, he will go to the paddock and have a look at the horses for the first race.  Half-a-dozen