't know either of the men from Adam, or either of the horses from
the great original pachyderm, but the information will do to go on with.
He rejoins his followers, and looks very mysterious.

"Well, did you hear anything?" they say.

The Oracle talks low and confidentially.

"The crowd that have got the favourite tell me they're not afraid of
anything but Royal Scot," he says. "I think we'd better put a bit on
both."

"What did the Royal Scot crowd say?" asks an admirer deferentially.

"Oh, they're going to try and win. I saw the stable commissioner, and he
told me they were going to put a hundred on him. Of course, you
needn't say I told you, 'cause I promised him I wouldn't tell." And
the satellites beam with admiration of the Oracle, and think what a
privilege it is to go to the races with such a knowing man.

They contribute their mites to the general fund, some putting in a
pound, others half a sovereign, and the Oracle takes it into the ring to
invest, half on the favourite and half on Royal Scot. He finds that the
favourite is at two to one, and Royal Scot at threes, eight to one
being offered against anything else. As he ploughs through the ring, a
Whisperer (one of those broken-down followers of the turf who get
their living in various mysterious ways, but partly by giving "tips" to
backers) pulls his sleeve.

"What are you backing?" he says.

"Favourite and Royal Scot," says the Oracle.

"Put a pound on Bendemeer," says the tipster. "It's a certainty. Meet
me here if it comes off, and I'll tell you something for the next race.
Don't miss it now. Get on quick!"

The Oracle is humble enough before the hanger-on of the turf. A
bookmaker roars "10 to 1 Bendemeer;" he suddenly fishes out a sovereign
of his own--and he hasn't money to spare, for all his knowingness--and
puts it on Bendemeer. His friends' money he puts on the favourite and
Royal Scot as arranged. Then they all go round to watch the race.

The horses are at the post; a distant cluster of crowded animals with
little dots of colour on their backs. Green, blue, yellow, purple,
French grey, and old gold, they change about in a bewildering manner,
and though the Oracle has a cheap pair of glasses, he can't make out
where Bendemeer has got to. Royal Scot and the favourite he has lost
interest in, and secretly hopes that they will be left at the post
or break their necks; but he does not confide his sentiment to his
companions.

They're off!