CHAPTERS FROM TURF HISTORY 



phorus, Egremont," observes a noble lord. 

 " Yes," replies the hero, " but, fortunately, I got 

 out of that scrape ; I was the third man who 

 knew he had gone lame." " And what are the 

 odds against him now ? " inquires Lord Eugene 

 de Vere. " Oh ! nominal — 40 to i. What you 

 please." " He won't run," said Mr. Berners ; 

 " John Day told me he had refused to ride him." 

 Then Lord Milford : "I beheve Cookie Graves 

 might win something if Phosphorus came in first." 



Lord Milford, a betting nobleman of the famiUar 

 type who confer with jockeys about the prospects 

 of horses, moves aside, and after secretly glancing 

 at a letter from the famous Chifney, offers to 

 take the odds about Pocket Hercules — Chifney's 

 mount in the race — a losing bet, however, for the 

 grey had no price at starting and was beaten a 

 long way from home. 



So much for the eve of the Derby. The next 

 chapter describes the Ring at Epsom on the 

 morning of the race : the eager groups round the 

 betting-post, and the gentlemen shouting from 

 their saddles the odds they would take. In a few 

 lines there is a witty sketch of two of the leading 

 professionals. Spruce, " who had earned his title 

 of Captain on the plains of Newmarket," had a 

 weakness for the aristocracy, who, knowing his 

 infirmity, acknowledged his existence in Pall Mall 

 as well as at Tattersalls, and thus occasionally 

 obtained a point over the odds. Mr. Chippendale, 

 on the other hand, had none of these gentle failings : 

 " he was a democratic leg and thought all men 

 were born equal." The business quickens : " Five- 

 and-thirty ponies, Phosphorus," is called. " I'll 



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