IN THE KNOW.
(By Mr. Punch's Own Prophet.)
Am I going to Goodwood? I answer that question by another. Is it likely that a race-meeting of any pretensions can possibly do without one whom even his enemies acknowledge to be the only accurate and high-minded sporting writer in the world? Those who care (and I devoutly hope that Mr. J., whose brains equal those of a newly-born tadpole, will not be amongst the number) can see me at any moment on pronouncing the password, "mealy-mouth," in my old place, close to the space devoted to Royalty. Yes, I shall be there. In the meantime, I propose to treat of the horses as only I can treat of them. I have nothing to say against Pioneer, except that the name promises very well for one who means to lead the way. Nous verrons, as RACINE said, on a celebrated occasion. As for The Imp, I cannot too strongly lay it down that only blue devils are bad for the digestion, and Galloping Queen may gallop farther than or not so far as Miss Ethel. A miss must be better than a mile to win. If Theophilus were Formidable, or if Imogene possessed a Grecian Bend, it might be necessary to sound Reveille in Rotten Row, which would certainly be a Marvel. Not being a roadster, I sometimes like The Field.
The above information ought to be sufficient to guide anybody whose brains are calculated to fill an egg-cup. All others may go to Earlswood, where they will probably meet Mr. J.
