up over the first spin over the clods; and that King's legs are too
light for my fancy, 'andsome as 'tis ondeniable he looks--for a little
'un, as one may say."

And Tim Varnet exactly expressed the dominant mistrust of the talent;
despite all his race and all his exploits, the King was not popular in
the Ring, because he was like his backers--"a swell." They thought him
"showy--very showy," "a picture to frame," "a luster to look at"; but
they disbelieved in him, almost to a man, as a stayer, and they trusted
him scarcely at all with their money.

"It's plain that he's 'meant,' though," thought little Tim, who was
so used to the "shady" in stable matters that he could hardly persuade
himself that even the Grand Military could be run fair, and would have
thought a Guardsman or a Hussar only exercised his just privilege as
a jockey in "roping" after selling the race, if so it suited his book.
"He's 'meant,' that's clear, 'cause the swells have put all their
pots on him--but if the pots don't bile over, strike me a loser!" a
contingency he knew he might very well invoke; his investments being
invariably so matchlessly arranged that, let what would be "bowled
over," Tim Varnet never could be.

Whatever the King might prove, however, the Guards, the Flower of the
Service, must stand or fall by him; they had not Seraph, they put in
"Beauty" and his gray. But there was no doubt as to the tremendousness
of the struggle lying before him. The running ground covered four miles
and a half, and had forty-two jumps in it, exclusive of the famous
Brixworth: half was grassland, and half ridge and furrow; a lane
with very awkward double fences laced in and in with the memorable
blackthorn, a laid hedge with thick growers in it and many another