My Racing Adventures 



then, I had met with the right kind of genial, 

 irresponsible conspirator? He said so. My 

 acceptance of his invitation to join in what he 

 gracefully termed "a symposium" was applauded 

 with effusion. 



"That is wise," he affirmed, "because if you 

 cannot ride winners for the moment, you can 

 listen while I talk about them for several hours." 



He certainly talked about them for a long 

 time with immense volubility, with an ever- 

 flowing eloquence. The loving-cup was handed 

 round ; sips and sighs, giggles and gargles, 

 marked our progress in the right direction ; 

 we might have been looking for truth at the 

 bottom of the mug, expecting to find it, as 

 usual, amongst the dregs. Life assumed a more 

 roseate aspect. My vivacious host lighted a 

 cigar and gave me one, also a match ; he seemed 

 to be full of generous impulses — it was delightful. 



"Talking about winners," he said, "you are, 

 of course, bitter if you can't steer three or four 

 every afternoon, and thus smother your chest 

 with golden medals. A little chastening does 

 none of us any harm. And have you heard the 

 story of old Tim Byles, the jockey, who did not 

 ride a winner in three years ? " 



Not for three years ! Poor chap ! It was 

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