(_By Mr. Punch's Own Prophet._)
HA! ha! I knew it, I knew it! All the grog-blossomed addle-pates in
the world couldn't have induced me to back _Surefoot_. There they
were cackling in their usual hugger-mugger Bedlamite, gin-palace,
gruel-brained fashion, with Mr. J. at the head of them blowing a
_fan-fare_ upon his own cracked penny trumpet. But I had my eye on
them all the time. For as the public must have discovered long before
this, if there is one person in the world who sets their interests
above everything, and swerves neither to the right nor to the left in
the effort to save them from the depredations of the pilfering gang
of pig-jobbers and moon-calves who chatter on sporting matters, that
person, I say it without offence, is _me_.
What was it I said last week about _Sainfoin_? "_Sainfoin_," I said,
"is not generally supposed to cover grass, but there are generally
exceptions." A baby in arms could have understood this. It meant, of
course, that _Sainfoin_ never lets the grass grow under his feet, and
that on the exceptional occasion of the Derby Day, he would win the
race. _And he did win the race._ We all know that; all, that is,
except Mr. J.'s lot, who still seem to think that they know something
about racing. But I have made my pile, and so have my readers, and
we can afford to snap our fingers at every pudding-headed
barnacle-grabber in the world. So much for the Derby.
As for the Oaks, it would be impossible to conceive anything more
scientifically, nay geometrically, accurate than my forecast.
"_Memoir_," I said, "might do _pour servir_." Well, didn't she? And if
anybody omitted to back her, all I can nay is, serve them right for
a pack of goose-brained Bedlamites. For myself, I can only say that,
having made a colossal fortune by my speculations, I propose shortly
to retire from the Turf I have so long adorned.
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