he best mile-an'-a-half
ever done on Randwick yesterday; but I don't give him a chance, for all
that; that's the worst of these trainers. They don't know when their
horses are well--half of 'em."

Then a voice comes from behind him. It is that of the thin man, who is
crushed out of sight by the bulk of the Oracle.

"I think," says the thin man, "that that horse of Flannery's ought to
run well in the Handicap."

The Oracle can't stand this sort of thing at all. He gives a snort,
wheels half-round and looks at the speaker. Then he turns back to the
compartment full of people, and says: "No 'ope."

The thin man makes a last effort. "Well, they backed him last night,
anyhow."

"Who backed 'im?" says the Oracle.

"In Tattersall's," says the thin man.

"I'm sure," says the Oracle; and the thin man collapses.

On arrival at the course, the Oracle is in great form. Attended by
his string of satellites, he plods from stall to stall staring at the
horses. Their names are printed in big letters on the stalls, but the
Oracle doesn't let that stop his display of knowledge.

"'Ere's Blue Fire," he says, stopping at that animal's stall, and
swinging his race book. "Good old Blue Fire!" he goes on loudly, as a
little court collects. "Jimmy B----" (mentioning a popular jockey) "told
me he couldn't have lost on Saturday week if he had only been ridden
different. I had a good stake on him, too, that day. Lor', the races
that has been chucked away on this horse. They will not ride him right."

A trainer who is standing by, civilly interposes. "This isn't Blue
Fire," he says. "Blue Fire's out walking about. This is a two-year-old
filly that's in the stall----"

"Well, I can see that, can't I," says the Oracle, crushingly. "You
don't suppose I thought Blue Fire was a mare, did you?" and he moves off
hurriedly.

"Now, look here, you chaps," he says to his followers at last. "You wait
here. I want to go and see a few of the talent, and it don't do to have
a crowd with you. There's Jimmy M---- over there now" (pointing to a
leading trainer). "I'll get hold of him in a minute. He couldn't tell me
anything with so many about. Just you wait here."

He crushes into a crowd that has gathered round the favourite's stall,
and overhears one hard-faced racing man say to another, "What do you
like?" to which the other answers, "Well, either this or Royal Scot. I
think I'll put a bit on Royal Scot." This is enough for the Oracle. He
doesn