IN THE KNOW.
(By Mr. Punch's Own Prophet.)
The crass and pernicious dulness of some people exceeds belief. There exists at the office of this paper a person—he is absolutely unworthy of any other designation—who presumed last week to abstain from inserting in these columns the article to which the sporting millions of his fellow countrymen were looking for information with reference to the Ascot doings. I have no doubt whatever that he himself used the hints which that article contained, for I have since seen him in a brand-new hat and a gold watch-chain, the result of his ill-gotten gains. For my own sake I am forced to explain this sinister business, lest the preposterous suet-headed Mr. J. should triumph, and my readers should suppose for a moment that I would willingly disappoint them. I have kept a copy of what I wrote, and I here transcribe some of it in self-defence.
"With regard to the Royal Hunt Cup," I observed, "only a bat-eyed bargee, with the brains of a molluscous monkey, could fail to see the merits of Morion. Morion, it is well known, is an open helmet, but it doesn't follow from that that the Hunt Cup is an open event. Far from it. Visor, or no visor, those who elect to stand on Morion, need anticipate no trouble from anything else, for Morion is as certain to win the race as Mr. J. is to make a green-gooseberry fool of himself before another week is out." There was accuracy. No silly beating about the bush, but a straightforward piece of information, which not even the great band of boozy Bedlamites and buffoons who dance attendance on Mr. J. could have mistaken. But, as I said, no blame attaches to me in the matter.
Now then with regard to the Gold Cup. I said: "In the Gold Cup the old adage holds, Medio tutissimus ibis. The Ibis, I may mention, though he was an Egyptian bird, cannot be termed a flyer. However, take the three words The Gold Cup, select the middle word, open your mouth, bung up the eyes of anyone who impedes you, and wire to your Commissioner." The middle word was "Gold," and Gold, of course, won the Cup that was of, or belonging to him. Ask Prince Soltykoff if am right or wrong. And for the rest, if any fuddling, bolus-brained, bran-faced, turnip-tongued, hippopotamus-headed moon-calf doubts my word, let him remember that there are pistols for two—and coffee for one, in Belgium, and let him tremble.
