692 A HISTORY OF THE ENGLISH TURF. 



W. Ridsdale had won with St. Giles, and his brother with Bloomsbury ; that Gully 

 had scored with Pyrrhus the First and Andijdw, while his son-in-law owned Cossack ; 

 that Mr. Snewing won in 1862 with Caractacus -; that William Chifney won with 

 Priam; and the late William I'Anson with Blink Bonny and Blair Athol. If 

 Gully had been a member of Parliament, John Robinson was in October, 1901, 

 High Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, and owner of Worksop Manor, one of the most 

 historic estates in one of the noblest districts of England. Mr. Robinson's success 

 as a bookmaker was not so strongly reflected in the fortunes of the horses he 

 owned himself as was the case with Gully, Ridsdale, Harry Hill, Fred Swindell, 

 Hargreaves, Saxon, Barber, or John Jackson. But it is no exaggeration to estimate 

 the position won by Mr. Robinson as considerably higher than that of any of his 

 rivals, not only as a sportsman with the Rufford Hounds, or as a breeder with 

 Breadknife, but as High Sheriff of the most aristocratic county in England. The 

 owner of the favourite of 1902 could boast, it was recalled, almost as varied a 

 career as any of these. He had been some time in Australia ; he was not unknown 

 behind the footlights in South Africa, and had been one of the first to volunteer for 

 the front when war broke out. His enemies remembered he had written a book. 

 His friends knew he had gambled "on everything under the sun," had backed 

 horses, and had laid against them. Those who knew nothing of him could at least 

 appreciate his confidence both in himself and in the mare. And then the con- 

 noisseurs of horse-flesh had their word. But those who argued that Eleanor (1801), 

 Blink Bonny (1857), and Shotover (1882) were the only mares to win the blue 

 ribbon, were told that this only proved it was time for an Eaton-bred one to 

 win it again, and were informed that the doctrine of averages was in favour of 

 Sceptre, for no filly had even started since La Fleche was so strangely beaten by 

 Sir Hugo in 1892 ; and that since Shotover s year only four of the 238 animals 

 had been mares. 



The great day came at last. I never saw a prettier sight than Sceptre cantering 

 and walking all round the course from the paddock past Tattenham Corner to her 

 position right on the outside at the start. I have seldom seen a race that made me 

 sadder than the finish. Ard Patrick, looking as strong as a lion, and, trained to 

 the hour, won with comparative ease. Just as easily, a little later on, did Sceptre win 

 the Oaks. I was being carried to the hospital as they started, and the news that 

 she had decisively beaten St. Windeline was the first thing that brought back any 

 interest in life. She was taken to Paris for the Grand Prix, which she not unnaturally 



