“I tell you what it is,” said I, “I’ll back the pony he’s left here to trot his twelve miles an hour on the road.”

“Bosh!” says Barclay of the 112th.  “I’ve seen him, and I’ll lay you a thousand rupees even he doesn’t.”

“Done!” said I, whacking my hand down on the table.

“And I’ll lay another thousand,” says another fellow.

“Done with you too,” said I.

Every one began to stare a bit then.

“Go to bed, Paddy,” says the Colonel, “you’re making an exhibition of yourself.”

“Thank you, sir; I know pretty well what I’m talking about,” said I; but, by George, I began privately to think I’d better pull myself together a bit, and I got out my book and began to hedge—­laid three to one on the pony to do eleven miles in the hour, and four to one on him to do ten—­all the fellows delighted to get their money on.  I was to choose my own ground, and to have a fortnight to train the pony, and by the time I went to bed I stood to lose about L1,000.

Somehow in the morning I didn’t feel quite so cheery about things—­one doesn’t after a big night—­one gets nasty qualms, both mental and the other kind.  I went out to look after the pony, and the first thing I saw by way of an appetiser was Biddy, with a face as long as my arm.  Biddy, I should explain, was a chap called Biddulph, in the Artillery; they called him Biddy for short, and partly, too, because he kept a racing stable with me in those days, I being called Paddy by every one, because I was Irish—­English idea of wit—­Paddy and Biddy, you see.

“Well,” said he, “I hear you’ve about gone and done it this time.  The 112th are going about with trumpets and shawms, and looking round for ways to spend that thousand when they get it.  There are to be new polo ponies, a big luncheon, and a piece of plate bought for the mess, in memory of that benefactor of the regiment, the departed bagman.  Well, now, let’s see the pony.  That’s what I’ve come down for.”

I’m hanged if the brute didn’t look more vulgar and wretched than ever when he was brought out, and I began to feel that perhaps I was more parts of a fool than I thought I was.  Biddy stood looking at him there with his under-lip stuck out.

“I think you’ve lost your money,” he said.  That was all, but the way he said it made me feel conscious of the shortcomings of every hair in the brute’s ugly hide.

“Wait a bit,” I said, “you haven’t seen him going yet.  I think he has the heels of any pony in the place.”

I got a boy on to him without any more ado, thinking to myself I was going to astonish Biddy.  “You just get out of his way, that’s all,” says I, standing back to let him start.

If you’ll believe it, he wouldn’t budge a foot!—­not an inch—­no amount of licking had any effect on him.  He just humped his back, and tossed his head and grunted—­he must have had a skin as thick as three donkeys!  I got on to him myself and put the spurs in, and he went up on his hind legs and nearly came back with me—­that was all the good I got of that.