The sporting chance

								

six monkeys to four on it, and if it doesn't come off he'll have to
tap the old man again or send in his papers."
Then again: "What on earth do they call this horse Hipponous for?"
queried a pretty little soubrette, hanging on the arm of a young
gentleman in a very long frock coat, suggestive of the counter.
"Don't know, Ellice," was the reply, "but give me Lochiel, the
fav'rit."  "Oh, no," she urged, "do back Hipponous!  He's got such
pretty colours--scarlet and silver--just like that dress I had last
Christmas for the Licensed Victuallers' Ball."
Finally, there was the comment facetious: "'Ippernous," said a
seedy-looking man with pasty face to the lad who was leading the colt
round, "W'y didn't they call 'im 'Ipperpotamus, an' a' done with it?
A fine lookin' colt, mind yer, but not quite good enough to beat the
fav'rit, 'oo will 'ave the satisfaction of carryin' a couple of
Oxfords for Jim Simson of Kemberwell."
Mostyn had but a dim understanding of all this, but his heart leapt
within him when Pierce came up, and smiting him cordially on the
back, carried him off to wish good luck to Sir Roderick, who was
standing by the side of his horse in the company of Joseph Dean, the
famous trainer, and of Fred Martin, the jockey, who held the record
of winning mounts for the year before.  Martin wore Sir Roderick's
colours--silver and scarlet--and his little twinkling eyes glittered
as he confided to Mostyn that he was proud to wear them, and that he
had every confidence in his horse--that he hoped to score his fifth
Derby success.
Mostyn felt in the seventh heaven, a privileged being, all the more
so since envious eyes were upon him.  It was all he could do to hold
himself with becoming gravity.  His great desire was to pose as a man
of experience, but, at the same time, there were so many questions he
wished to ask.  And at last his evil genius impelled him to an
ineptitude, one of those blunders that seemed to come so easily to
his tongue: he wanted to know Hipponous's age!  Something in the
jockey's stare as he made answer warned Mostyn of danger, and he
moved away as soon as he dared.
"That's 'Ipponous, ain't it?"  An ungrammatical stranger, who, in
spite of his horsey attire, was evidently but poorly informed, pushed
his way to Mostyn's side.  "A fine horse--what?"
"I should think so," responded the young man heartily.  "An Irish
horse; comes from Sir Roderick Macphane's stables in Ulster.  Trained
by Joseph Dean here at Epsom."  Mostyn felt on safe ground in giving
this information.
"Ah!"  The stranger leered out of the corner of his eye.  "I dessay
you know a bit, what?  I see you talking to Martin just now.  What
does Martin think of his mount?"
"Why, he says"--Mostyn got no further, for luckily at that moment
Anthony Royce appeared, and, laying his hand upon his young friend's
arm gently led him away, very much to the annoyance of the stranger.