Often I have backed a horse for his name, for something curious, or literary, or classical about his name. Xanthus, or Podargus, or Phaeeton, or Lampusa has often carried my investment to an inconspicuous position in the ruck.  Another plan of mine, which I believe every Duffer adopts, was backing my dreams—­those horses of air.  About the time of the Derby one always reads about lucky persons who backed a dream.  But one does not read about the unlucky persons who take the same precaution.  Several millions of people in this country read, talk, and think about nothing but racehorses.  When the Socialists have their way, may I advise them to keep up Government or communal racing studs and stables?  What the betting is to be done in, if there is no money (which is contemplated as I understand), is not obvious.  But the people will insist on having races, and what is a race without a bet?  However, these considerations wander from the subject in hand.  With a fourth of the population thinking about horses, a large proportion must dream about horses.  Out of these dreams, perhaps one in one hundred and fifty thousand comes true, and about that dream we read in the papers.  We don’t read about the other dreams, such as mine were, for I have dreamed of winning numbers, winning colours, winning horses, but my dreams came all through the Ivory Gate, and my money followed them.

[Illustration:  “Yet here I was finally unsuccessful.”]

I don’t pretend to be a judge of a horse; except for their colour they all seem pretty much alike to me.  Nor did I haunt race-courses much, people there are often very unrefined, and the Ring is extremely noisy and confusing.  Once I heard a man offering to lay considerable odds against the Field, and I offered in a shy and hesitating manner, to accept them.  He asked me what horse I backed?  I said none in particular, the Field at large, all of them, for really the odds seemed very remarkable.  But he did not accede to my wishes, and continued to shout in rather a discourteous manner.  Once, too, when I had won some money, I lost it all on the way back, at a simple sort of game of cards, not nearly so complex and difficult as whist.  One need only to say which of three cards, in the dealer’s hand, was the card one had chosen.  Yet here I was finally unsuccessful, though fortunate at first, and I am led to suppose that some kind of sleight of hand had been employed; or, perhaps, that the card of my choice had in some manner been smuggled away.  However, once on a racecourse I saw a horse which I fancied on his merits.  He looked very tall and strong, and was of a pretty colour, also he had a nice tail.  He was hardly mentioned in the betting, and I got “on” at seventy to one, very reasonable odds.  I backed him then, and he won, with great apparent ease, for his jockey actually seemed to be holding him in, rather than spurring him in the regrettable way which you sometimes see.