He cannot see it anywhere, and the confused and confusing mass
swings round the turn into the straight.

Then there is a babel of voices, and suddenly a shout of "Bendemeer!
Bendemeer!" and the Oracle, without knowing which is Bendemeer,
takes up the cry feverishly. "Bendemeer! Bendemeer!" he yells,
waggling his glasses about, trying to see where the animal is.

"Where's Royal Scot, Charley? Where's Royal Scot?" screams one
of his friends, in agony. "'Ow's he doin'?"

"No 'ope!" says the Oracle, with fiendish glee. "Bendemeer! Bendemeer!"

The horses are at the Leger stand now, whips are out, and three horses
seem to be nearly abreast; in fact, to the Oracle there seem to be
a dozen nearly abreast. Then a big chestnut sticks his head in front
of the others, and a small man at the Oracle's side emits
a deafening series of yells right by the Oracle's ear:

"Go on, Jimmy! Rub it into him! Belt him! It's a cake-walk!
A cake-walk! The big chestnut, in a dogged sort of way,
seems to stick his body clear of his opponents, and passes the post
a winner by a length. The Oracle doesn't know what has won, but fumbles
with his book. The number on the saddle-cloth catches his eye -- No. 7;
he looks hurriedly down the page. No. 7 -- Royal Scot. Second is No. 24
-- Bendemeer. Favourite nowhere.

Hardly has he realised it, before his friends are cheering and clapping him
on the back. "By George, Charley, it takes you to pick 'em."
"Come and 'ave a wet!" "You 'ad a quid in, didn't you, Charley?"