to which the other answers, "Well, either this or Royal Scot.
I think I'll put a bit on Royal Scot." This is enough for the Oracle.
He doesn't know either of the men from Adam, or either of the horses
from the great original pachyderm, but the information will do
to go on with. He rejoins his followers, and looks very mysterious.

"Well, did you hear anything?" they say.

The Oracle talks low and confidentially.

"The crowd that have got the favourite tell me they're not afraid
of anything but Royal Scot," he says. "I think we'd better put
a bit on both."

"What did the Royal Scot crowd say?" asks an admirer deferentially.

"Oh, they're going to try and win. I saw the stable commissioner,
and he told me they were going to put a hundred on him. Of course,
you needn't say I told you, 'cause I promised him I wouldn't tell."
And the satellites beam with admiration of the Oracle, and think
what a privilege it is to go to the races with such a knowing man.

They contribute their mites to the general fund, some putting in a pound,
others half a sovereign, and the Oracle takes it into the ring to invest,
half on the favourite and half on Royal Scot. He finds that the favourite
is at two to one, and Royal Scot at threes, eight to one being offered
against anything else. As he ploughs through the ring, a Whisperer
(one of those broken-down followers of the turf who get their living
in various mysterious ways, but partly by giving "tips" to backers)
pulls his sleeve.