Here he looked surreptitiously at his cuff, saw a note "No. II.",
mistook it for "Number Eleven", and said: "I want Number Eleven
to go another round."

The leggy, weedy chestnut, with the terrified amateur up, came sidling
and snorting out into the ring. The fat man looked at him with scorn.

"What is that fiddle-headed brute doing in the ring?" he said.

"Why," said the ring steward, "you said you wanted him."

"Well," said the fat man, "if I said I wanted him I do want him.
Let him go the round."

The terrified amateur went at his fences with the rashness of despair,
and narrowly escaped being clouted off on two occasions.
This put the fat man in a quandary. He had kept no record,
and all the horses were jumbled up in his head; but he had one fixed idea,
to give the first prize to Gaslight; as to the second he was open
to argument. From sheer contrariness he said that Number Eleven would be
"all right if he were rode better," and the squatter agreed.
The little man was overruled, and the prizes went -- Gaslight, first;
Spite, second; Homeward Bound, third.

The crowd hooted loudly as Spite's rider came round with the second ribbon,
and small boys suggested to the fat judge in shrill tones that he ought to
boil his head. The fat man stalked majestically into the stewards' stand,
and on being asked how he came to give Spite the second prize,
remarked oracularly: "I judge the 'orse, I don't judge the rider."
This silenced criticism, and everyone adjourned to have a drink.