Racing Stories 



He had to carry a 6-st. lad, who looked like 

 a worble on his back. The boy was virtually 

 helpless on him, and he finished nearer last 

 than first, not having turned a hair. The grief 

 expressed by Peter after that contretemps was 

 vastly appreciated by a few of his leading cronies. 

 1 My horse,' he told them, ' was too big, and my 

 jockey was too little. There was no sense of 

 proportion, and between the two irreconcilables 

 I could not have won a slice of stale cake at a 

 cat show in the suburbs.' 



"Incited to continue his flowery language — 

 for if we can make fools of ourselves our leading 

 cronies are sure to be in at the death — Peter went 

 on, unabashed : 



" ' My rod in pickle was too briny, he had been 

 in soak too long, his trifling jockey had not sense 

 or strength enough to flick at him superciliously 

 en route', and, verily, I had overdone the trick, 

 like an amateur chef who knows what the meat 

 is after he has swallowed a most noxious portion. 

 My horse could have won with another stone in 

 the saddle, and what I put on him in the shape 

 of a jockey was not enough to steady him as 

 blessed ballast.' " 



The symposium ended, the last wave of cigar 

 accomplished, the last story told with an air 



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