But the cross-currents immediately set in--as they always do.
I began by making the mistake of reading the forecasts of all the
experts--the gallant Captains and Majors, the Men on the Course, the Men
on the Heath, the Men on the Spot--all of whom, although they mostly
favoured The Panther, had serious views as to dangerous rivals,
supported by what looked like uncontrovertible arguments.
I also had an early evening paper with a summary of forecasts, none of
which (as it was to turn out) mentioned the winner at all.
I was even so foolish as to glance at some of the advertisements of the
wizards who are so ready to put the benefit of their knowledge at the
service of the public and make fortunes for others rather (apparently)
than for themselves, all of whom hinted at some mysterious long-priced
outsider whose miraculous qualities of speed were a secret. But of
course I was too late to profit by these; they merely unsettled me.
Not content with this I was forced to overhear the conversation of
others in our compartment, each of whom fancied a separate animal,
arguing with reasons that could not be gainsaid.
In this way I learned that The Panther would win in a canter and would
be badly beaten; that he was a stranger to the Epsom course; that he was
ready for anything; that he liked soft going; that he was no good except
when he could hear his hoofs rattle; that his jockey was not strong
enough; that his jockey was ideal; that he was sounder than any horse
had ever been, and that trouble was brewing.
All this naturally left me shaken as to my first decision. Was I wise,
I asked myself, to trust all my eggs (forgive, Sir ALEC BLACK, the
poorness of this metaphor) to one doubtful basket?
Having admitted an element of doubt I was the prey of every suspicion
and began to consider the other candidates. All Alone headed the list.
I liked the name, because it suggested the corollary: the rest nowhere.
Also it belonged to a lady--to the only lady owner, in fact--and
lady--owners were said (by a man with a red beard opposite me who smoked
cigarettes so short that I was certain it was made of dyed asbestos) to
be in luck this season. "Always follow the luck," he added. But then, on
the other hand, what could be more lucky than Colonel BUCHAN, author of
_Mr. Standfast_ and an excellent History of the War, into whose lap so
many good things fall? Why not back a horse named after him? Besides,
was not Buchan third favourite?
I was making a note of Buchan's claims, when a man with a Thermos flask
lashed to his side began to praise Dominion. Dominion, it seems, was
third in the Two Thousand Guineas--only just behind Buchan, who was just
behind The Panther. Many people thought The Panther unduly lucky that
day. A very different course, too, at Newmarket from that at Epsom.
Obviously Dominion must be remembered. Moreover he was being greatly
fancied and some of the best judges looked to him to win the Blue Riband
for Lord GLANELY. The fact that Lord GLANELY drew his own horse in the
Baltic Sweep was not to be sneezed at either, said some one. That's an
omen if there ever was one! And it knocked out Lord GLANELY'S other
horse, Grand Parade.
"Well, here's a tip," cried a man with a frock-coat and a straw hat.
"Blest if I've got a single coin left--nothing but paper money. That's
good enough for me. I shall back Paper Money."
The carriage agreed that that was his duty. "Of course you must," they
said. "When everyone disagrees in the way that the experts do, you might
as well take a tip like that as anything."
Paper Money had therefore to be added also to my list of possibles.
"Besides," said another man, "DONOGHUE rides him; our leading jockey,
you know." I had forgotten to look at the jockeys' names. How absurd! Of
course one must back DONOGHUE.
But just then, "Give me WHALLEY," said the man with the asbestos beard,
and, as WHALLEY was riding Bay of Naples, I had to consider him too.
Naples was a jolly place and I had had a lot of fun there. Hadn't I
better make that my tip?
But, on the other hand, what about Tangiers? I had had fun there too,
and more than one fellow-passenger had darkly hinted that this was a
much better animal than public form proclaimed. Looking for particulars,
I found that he once "ran Galloper Light to a head;" which had a
promising sound. He was trained at Lambourne too, and I like Lambourne.
There is a good inn there and it is a fine walk to White Horse Hill.
"Well," said another man, who had been borrowing matches from his
neighbour ever since Victoria, "I always had a feeling for a Marcovil
colt. Marcovil is a good sire. I 've had some very special information
about Milton, the Marcovil colt, to-day."
MILTON!--one of my favourite poets, and also one of Mr. ASQUITH'S, as he
said in that lecture last week. Yes, but is Mr. ASQUITH exactly lucky
just now? Perhaps not. And did not MILTON write _Paradise Lost_? True.
But, on the other hand, he wrote _Paradise Regained_. You see how
difficult tip-hunting can be!
And so it went on and I emerged from the Epsom Downs station in a
maze of indecision, in which one fact and one only shone with crystal
clearness, and that was that whatever won the race The Panther had no
better chance, even though it had been made favourite, than any other.
"Besides," as one of the two men who sat on my knees had said, "What's a
favourite anyway? Very often a horse is made a favourite by the bookies,
in conjunction with the Press, just so as everyone will back it. No, no
favourites for me. Give me a likely outsider at good odds. Look what you
have to put on The Panther to win anything."
In the result I backed--well, I am not going to tell you; but they "also
ran."
The moral of this story--if it has one--is either don't bet at all, or,
if you do bet, draw the horse from a hat at random, and, having drawn
it, stick to it. No one, as the failure of The Panther proves, can
possibly _know_ more than you.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Daphne_. "I MUSTN'T HAVE ANY CAKE TILL I DON'T ASK FOR
IT, MUST I?"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Wife_. "HOW ABOUT SEAHAVEN FOR THE HOLIDAYS? I HEAR IT'S
VERY PICTURESQUE."
_Profiteer_. "NOT OUR CLASS, MY DEAR. TOO QUIET--SORT O' PLACE THE
_NOUVEAUX PAUVRES_ GO TO."]
* * * * *