do you?"

Joe wished he had sixpence.

About an hour afterwards Dad came staggering along arm-in-arm with another
man--an old fencing-mate of his, so he made out.

"Thur yar," he said, taking off his hat and striking Bess on the rump with
it; "besh bred mare in the worl'."

The fencing-mate looked at her, but did n't say anything; he could n't.

"Eh?" Dad went on; "say sh'ain't? L'ere-ever y' name is--betcher pound
sh'is."

Then a jeering and laughing crowd gathered round, and Dave wished he
had n't come to the races.

"She ain't well," said a tall man to Dad--"short in her gallops." Then a
short, bulky individual without whiskers shoved his face up into Dad's and
asked him if Bess was a mare or a cow. Dad became excited, and only that
old Anderson came forward and took him away there must have been a row.

Anderson put him in the dray and drove it home to Shingle Hut.

Dad reckons now that there is nothing in horse-racing, and declares it a
fraud. He says, further, that an honest man, by training and racing a
horse, is only helping to feed and fatten the rogues and vagabonds that
live on the sport.