"What are you backing?" he says.

"Favourite and Royal Scot," says the Oracle.

"Put a pound on Bendemeer," says the tipster. "It's a certainty.
Meet me here if it comes off, and I'll tell you something
for the next race. Don't miss it now. Get on quick!"

The Oracle is humble enough before the hanger-on of the turf.
A bookmaker roars "10 to 1 Bendemeer;" he suddenly fishes out a sovereign
of his own -- and he hasn't money to spare, for all his knowingness --
and puts it on Bendemeer. His friends' money he puts on the favourite
and Royal Scot as arranged. Then they all go round to watch the race.

The horses are at the post; a distant cluster of crowded animals
with little dots of colour on their backs. Green, blue, yellow, purple,
French grey, and old gold, they change about in a bewildering manner,
and though the Oracle has a cheap pair of glasses, he can't make out
where Bendemeer has got to. Royal Scot and the favourite
he has lost interest in, and secretly hopes that they will be
left at the post or break their necks; but he does not confide
his sentiment to his companions.

They're off! The long line of colours across the track
becomes a shapeless clump and then draws out into a long string.
"What's that in front?" yells someone at the rails.
"Oh, that thing of Hart's," says someone else. But the Oracle
hears them not; he is looking in the mass of colour
for a purple cap and grey jacket, with black arm bands.