was made. As PETER put it, "I've done him in the eye, to prevent him
doing me." I tried in vain to bring him round to the opinion that (let
alone robbing one's father) cheating a cheat was one of the lowest
forms of roguery. The dog-fancier soon afterwards returned, and
protested, with tears in his eyes, that the shabby trick had wounded
him in his tenderest feelings, but he seemed quite willing to begin a
fresh bargain with "the only gen'lemen, s'help me, as ever bested pore
little ALEC."

All this is, however, by the way. I merely mention it to illustrate
PETER's character. At the University Steeple-Chase Meeting, which
took place at the end of our third October term, SHEEF had entered
his animals for several races. He was a good rider, and confidently
anticipated success. To celebrate the occasion, he had arranged a big
dinner-party, and had invited some twenty of us to dine with him. I
had been unable to go to the races myself, but at the appointed hour
I turned up at SHEEF's rooms. I found the table brilliantly laid,
waiters hanging about, and dozens of Champagne in readiness. SHEEF
was there, but, beside myself, no other guest had appeared. And not a
single one came. I forget what excuse the miserable host made, but the
result was that we two solemnly dined at a table laid for ten times
our number. I think I shall remember that ghastly festivity as long as
I live. The next day all Cambridge knew that SHEEF had not only pulled
one of his horses openly and disgracefully, but had wilfully misled
both his friends and the book-makers as to the horse he intended to
ride in a race for which entries were made at the post. I never heard
that he stood to win more than L50 by the transaction. And for this
paltry sum (paltry, that is, to a man of his means) he had wrecked his
reputation, and all the possibilities of his career.

I see him slinking about London sometimes. Last year he passed,
with much discredit, through the Bankruptcy Court. He has been a
Director of countless Companies, for the stock of fools seems to be
inexhaustible. There can only be one end for such a man as SHEEF. The
cool, callous, and calculating knave may get clear through to the end;
but SHEEF always was stupidly good-natured, and good-nature hangs like
a millstone round the neck of rascality. I cannot myself detest him as
I ought to do. He was so near to completely successful respectability.
But crookedness ruined him, in spite of his better wish