“The paddock,” murmured my Zulu companion. “It’s an idea of Sir Joseph’s. The combination of a sit-down luncheon and form at a glance. Extraordinarily convenient.”
We sat down at a table. Immediately a jockey and his horse sat down opposite to us.
“Order us a drink each, dearie,” said the jockey, “it’s a fearful business this perambulatin’ about; and you get nothing for it. Eh? Oh, gin for ’er, and I’ll take a glass o’ port.”
“And what is your young friend’s name?” enquired the judge, suddenly putting his head from under the table.
“Ah,” said the jockey, knowingly, “that ’ud be telling, that would.” He tapped his nose mysteriously and drank.
“But, my good sir,” complained the judge, “how can I back your horse if I don’t know its name?”
“By the process of elimination,” said the jockey sagely.
“Done down on the Downs.”
“Elimination,” said the judge, “what of?”