There was a large field, and long prices were offered against many of the competitors. A man had only to know the winner to realize a fortune for a ridiculously small outlay.
The favourites I discarded, as I had seen too many "certainties" settled coming up the stiff ascent. I had taken stock of most of the horses before they cantered, and was trying to get a hint from the betting, when I recollected the neglected "tip" in my pocket.
On the soiled paper was scrawled with a pencil, "The winner of the Hunt Cup is Jasper! Back him, and send a trifle out of your winnings to R. F., Black Bull Inn, Newmarket."
I had seen and liked the form and condition of Baron Rothschild's horse. He looked admirably adapted to ascend the hill, as his hind legs were well placed under him; and considering his performances, he was not over-burdened with weight. There were many more unlikely candidates, and finding that all the sporting Solons, excepting one who wrote under the odd name of "Disgue," had not a favourable word to say about Jasper, and in the absence of other authentic intelligence, I pinned my faith to the selection of the Newmarket tout.
"How much Jasper?" I asked a prominent member of the ring.
"Hundred to three," was the answer.
"Put it down seven times," I said, and I handed the bookmaker twenty-one pounds.
If the horse lost I would still be the winner of four pounds on the day, and there were other races to speculate on. I was not kept long in suspense. A bell announced that the starter had got rid of his eager and troublesome customers. Anxious eyes watched the struggle.
"The favourite's beat," was soon proclaimed, and several gentlemen shouted, "Steel, Nicholls, what against Jasper?"