On arrival at the course, the Oracle is in great form. Attended by his
string of satellites, he plods from stall to stall staring at the horses.
Their names are printed in big letters on the stalls, but the Oracle
doesn't let that stop his display of knowledge.

"'Ere's Blue Fire," he says, stopping at that animal's stall,
and swinging his race book. "Good old Blue Fire!" he goes on loudly,
as a little court collects. "Jimmy B----" (mentioning a popular jockey)
"told me he couldn't have lost on Saturday week if he had only
been ridden different. I had a good stake on him, too, that day.
Lor', the races that has been chucked away on this horse.
They will not ride him right."

A trainer who is standing by, civilly interposes. "This isn't Blue Fire,"
he says. "Blue Fire's out walking about. This is a two-year-old filly
that's in the stall ----"

"Well, I can see that, can't I," says the Oracle, crushingly.
"You don't suppose I thought Blue Fire was a mare, did you?"
and he moves off hurriedly.

"Now, look here, you chaps," he says to his followers at last.
"You wait here. I want to go and see a few of the talent, and it don't do
to have a crowd with you. There's Jimmy M---- over there now"
(pointing to a leading trainer). "I'll get hold of him in a minute.
He couldn't tell me anything with so many about. Just you wait here."

He crushes into a crowd that has gathered round the favourite's stall,
and overhears one hard-faced racing man say to another, "What do you like?"