A DOUBTFUL COMPLIMENT.
Sympathetic Spinster. "And is your other Boy at all like this one?"
Proud Mother. "Oh, no; quite a Contrast to him!"
Sympathetic Spinster. "How nice!"
IN THE KNOW.
(By Mr. Punch's Own Prophet.)
Ha! ha! I knew it, I knew it! All the grog-blossomed addle-pates in the world couldn't have induced me to back Surefoot. There they were cackling in their usual hugger-mugger Bedlamite, gin-palace, gruel-brained fashion, with Mr. J. at the head of them blowing a fan-fare upon his own cracked penny trumpet. But I had my eye on them all the time. For as the public must have discovered long before this, if there is one person in the world who sets their interests above everything, and swerves neither to the right nor to the left in the effort to save them from the depredations of the pilfering gang of pig-jobbers and moon-calves who chatter on sporting matters, that person, I say it without offence, is me.
What was it I said last week about Sainfoin? "Sainfoin," I said, "is not generally supposed to cover grass, but there are generally exceptions." A baby in arms could have understood this. It meant, of course, that Sainfoin never lets the grass grow under his feet, and that on the exceptional occasion of the Derby Day, he would win the race. And he did win the race. We all know that; all, that is, except Mr. J.'s lot, who still seem to think that they know something about racing. But I have made my pile, and so have my readers, and we can afford to snap our fingers at every pudding-headed barnacle-grabber in the world. So much for the Derby.