I went to the Derby fully intending to back the favourite--The Panther.

But the cross-currents immediately set in--as they always do.

I began by making the mistake of reading the forecasts of all the
experts--the gallant Captains and Majors, the Men on the Course, the Men
on the Heath, the Men on the Spot--all of whom, although they mostly
favoured The Panther, had serious views as to dangerous rivals,
supported by what looked like uncontrovertible arguments.

I also had an early evening paper with a summary of forecasts, none of
which (as it was to turn out) mentioned the winner at all.

I was even so foolish as to glance at some of the advertisements of the
wizards who are so ready to put the benefit of their knowledge at the
service of the public and make fortunes for others rather (apparently)
than for themselves, all of whom hinted at some mysterious long-priced
outsider whose miraculous qualities of speed were a secret. But of
course I was too late to profit by these; they merely unsettled me.

Not content with this I was forced to overhear the conversation of
others in our compartment, each of whom fancied a separate animal,
arguing with reasons that could not be gainsaid.

In this way I learned that The Panther would win in a canter and would
be badly beaten; that he was a stranger to the Epsom course; that he was
ready for anything; that he liked soft going; that he was no good except
when he could hear his hoofs rattle; that his jockey was not strong
enough; that his jockey was ideal; that he was sounder than any horse
had ever been, and that trouble was brewing.