IN THE KNOW.
(By Mr. Punch's Own Prophet.)
The Duke of Dumpshire seems to have been much annoyed by my statement that he killed two trainers with his own hand, for being caught watching a trial of his Derby horses, and that the Jockey Club took no action. I beg to inform his Grace and those who approve his methods, that I care no more for their annoyance than I do for the muddy-minded lucubrations of Mr. Jeremy and his servile tribe of moon-calves. I have public duties to perform, and if, in the course of my comments on racing, I should find myself occasionally compelled to run counter to the imbecile prejudices of some of the aristocratic patrons of the turf, I can assure my readers that I shall not flinch from the task. I therefore repeat that, in the middle of last month, the Duke of Dumpshire killed two trainers, and that up to the present time the Jockey Club have not enforced against him the five-pound penalty which is specially provided by their rules for offences of this sort. When Mr. Jacobs, who has no aristocratic connections, ventured to lynch a rascally tout on Newmarket Heath last year, he was made to pay up at once. The contrast is suggestive.
A lot of jannering nonsense has been talked about Bazaar by the Will-o'-the-Wisps who mislead the long-suffering public in turf matters. Bazaar is by Rector out of Church Mouse, and in his pedigree are to be found such well-known roarers as Boanerges and Hallelujah Sal—not much of a recommendation to anybody except Mr. Jeremy. His own performances are worse than contemptible. As a two-year old, he was placed second at eight stone to Candlestick in the Warmington Open Welter Handicap. After that he sprang a curb in the middle of his back, and the fools who train him actually brought him out to run in the All-aged Selling Plate at Ballymacwhacket. He won the race easily enough of course, but only an impostor, whose head was stuffed with horsehair, would attach the least importance to that. Since then he has eaten two pairs of spurs, a halter, and half of a jockey, which scarcely looks like winning races. I have now relieved my conscience on the matter, so if the puddle-brains wish to back him, their loss must lie at their own doors.
The Marquis de Millepardon has bought Chowbock for £2000. At the last Epsom Meeting Chowbock showed himself a fine pace-maker in an East wind, having cantered in from Sister Mary, who as good as walked round Vilikins when the latter was being tried without his pastern-pad on the Cotswold Hills. At the same time it must be remembered, that Sister Mary only got home by a length from Smockfrock, after having been double-girthed and provided with a bucket of Pocock's antiseptic, anti-crib-biting condition balls for internal application over the Newmarket T. Y. C.
Next week, I may have something to say about Derby prospects. For the present, I can only advise would-be investors to steer clear of Mr. Jeremy and his quacking, goose-headed parasites.
Change of Name.—M. Succi, having succeeded in existing for forty days on water alone, will henceforth be known as Water-Succi.