that car again, do you think he'd know it?"

Not being used to elephants, I could not offer an opinion.




The Oracle



No tram ever goes to Randwick races without him; he is always fat,
hairy, and assertive; he is generally one of a party,
and takes the centre of the stage all the time --
collects and hands over the fares, adjusts the change,
chaffs the conductor, crushes the thin, apologetic stranger next him
into a pulp, and talks to the whole compartment as if they had asked
for his opinion.

He knows all the trainers and owners, or takes care to give the impression
that he does. He slowly and pompously hauls out his race book,
and one of his satellites opens the ball by saying, in a deferential way:

"What do you like for the 'urdles, Charley?"

The Oracle looks at the book and breathes heavily; no one else
ventures to speak.

"Well," he says, at last, "of course there's only one in it --
if he's wanted. But that's it -- will they spin him? I don't think