I see him regularly once a year, but there is no improvement in his condition. On the contrary, the wreck is beginning to break up, and I fear that soon his place on earth will be vacant. An uncle allows him two pounds a week so long as he remains at Boulogne.
To "Royal Ascot," as it was called by the sporting prophets, I went, determined to do my best to defeat the layers of odds. A careful study of the programme made me fancy I could name a few winners.
Entering the course on Hunt Cup day, I was addressed by a miserable looking object, who informed me that he was the brother of a famous jockey. He knew, he said, a certainty for the principal race. Not believing for a moment that he had any reliable information, I threw the half-starved wretch a shilling, and was walking away when he ran after me and gave me a scrap of paper.
In a popular play, derived of course from French sources, it is seen of what great importance a few words of writing may become. The strip of paper handed to me by the Newmarket tout, and which I carelessly put into my waistcoat pocket without reading it, was destined to save me from a grave difficulty; and dirty as it is, it will always have a prominent place in my album.
Over the previous events I had varying luck, and when the numbers went up for the prettiest race of the year, I had won altogether twenty-five pounds, so I resolved to give myself a chance.
There was a large field, and long prices were offered against many of the competitors. A man had only to know the winner to realize a fortune for a ridiculously small outlay.
The favourites I discarded, as I had seen too many "certainties" settled coming up the stiff ascent. I had taken stock of most of the horses before they cantered, and was trying to get a hint from the betting, when I recollected the neglected "tip" in my pocket.
On the soiled paper was scrawled with a pencil, "The winner of the Hunt Cup is Jasper! Back him, and send a trifle out of your winnings to R. F., Black Bull Inn, Newmarket."
I had seen and liked the form and condition of Baron Rothschild's horse. He looked admirably adapted to ascend the hill, as his hind legs were well placed under him; and considering his performances, he was not over-burdened with weight. There were many more unlikely candidates, and finding that all the sporting Solons, excepting one who wrote under the odd name of "Disgue," had not a favourable word to say about Jasper, and in the absence of other authentic intelligence, I pinned my faith to the selection of the Newmarket tout.