“Yes,” said Phil, “I know he does, and it ain’t the first time we have differed. I hope he may be right; at all events I’ll know to-morrow morning what sort of metal he’s made of, for I’ll ride him myself, and be sure you make the pot boil, Master Jack, and have a good face, for I want you to make the running.”
The following morning, when the light was but grey, six horses (including Culverstone, ridden by Phil Spott) stripped of their clothes, and each ridden by a crack jockey clothed in light boots and breeches, and thin jean jackets, and escorted by the trainer and one of the head-lads mounted on neat cobs, left the stable-yard, and walked leisurely to the trial-ground about a mile off. All the other lads and people about the racing-stable were carefully kept at home under the surveillance of some trustworthy person; for, as Phil used to say, he “liked the trials in his court to be conducted with closed doors.”
On reaching the trial ground, the horses walk about for a few minutes whilst the trainer and the head-lad canter off in different directions to see that there are no “touts” (horse-watchers) concealed anywhere. Having satisfied themselves of this, they return, the trainer stations himself at the winning-post, the horses, with the head-lad, walk to the starting-post, and when the jockeys have arranged themselves pretty well in line, he tells them to go, and away they do go, with a crash and a rustling of jackets in the morning-breeze, at railroad speed; Jack Brown, as directed, laying first and making the running at a splitting pace, though now and then taking a furtive look round, to see where his friend Culverstone is. For about the first quarter of a mile, or so (the distance they had to run being a mile), Phil and his horse were last of the six. In a little over another half-mile, and consequently within a quarter of a mile of the finish, he had joined the leading horse, and to the delighted eyes of Jack Brown, looked as if he was going to win: sure enough too at that point (which was Phil Spott’s private winning-post, though known only to himself and “the General,”) he had won, and Phil was then thoroughly satisfied in his own mind that Culverstone was a real good horse: but Jack Brown’s joy was short-lived, for shortly after this, in rounding the last turn before reaching the winning-post, lo, and behold! to his no little dismay, and the surprise of the other jockeys, he began suddenly to drop back a little, then a little more, Phil Spott apparently endeavouring to make the most of him, while one and the other passed him, and he became last of all, in which ignominious position he finished.
When they had all pulled up, and had let their horses stand a few minutes to get their wind, the cavalcade again assembled together to wend their way home, “the General” riding by their side, looking as black as thunder, and not saying a word, upon which Phil began to chaff him, after his fashion, in the hearing of the other jockeys, and especially of Jack Brown.
“Why, General! your face is as long as a day’s march. Your bird did not fly quite as fast this morning as he did over the mahogany last night. Who’s right, now, Old’un? But never mind! Cheer up! Only let me give you one bit of advice. If you, or any of us, are taken ill, don’t you send this flying prad for the Doctor:”—at which all except Jack, who screwed up a sort of ghastly grin, laughed immoderately.
Shortly after they reached home, Phil said to the General, when they were alone, both joining in a hearty laugh:—“I say, Gen., I think we ought to christen Jack Brown, Done Brown, now; for I’ve done him, and every devil of ’em. He is the best horse that was ever lapped in leather: I could have won in a canter!”
“Yes,” said the General, “I knew he would cut up a real good one; but, I say, Phil, I noticed as we walked home, that you had spurred him. Were you beat for pace anywhere?”
“Not I,” replied Phil. “It was when they had all passed me, that I gave him a touch of the Brummagem pegs, for fear they should think he had not been ridden on the square, as I knew they would take stock of his ribs.”
How it happened, readers, that very shortly after this, several speculators, and especially our acquaintances A. and B., betted largely against this horse, and sent him to the right about in the betting for the Derby, I must leave you to guess. All I know is, that their faces, as Phil said of the General’s on that memorable morning, “were as long as a day’s march” when they saw him win the Two Thousand Guineas’ Stakes at Newmarket; they were all compelled, for their own security, to back him again, at fearful loss, for the Derby; and when that eventful race was run, the horse recorded as the winner was Culverstone!
DREAMS.
Dreams are the accompaniment of both idleness and work. They “come through the multitude of business,” and occupy the lazy brain; they are associated with the sluggard and the enthusiast; they are honoured as channels of supernatural advice, and blamed as the offspring of sheer sensuality. We dream with our eyes open as well as shut—by day as well as by night. But the phenomena of dreams have defied scientific experiments and metaphysical inquiries. Now and then it seems as if some law were discovered, but the investigator is soon baulked. You fancy you can account for a dream, but you can’t make one. It may sometimes be analysed, but I believe has never been composed. You do not know how it will turn out. Impress your mind strongly with this and that set of ideas, and lo, the whole slips out of the place where you put it, and another occupies your sleeping thoughts. You can’t cook a dream. The skilful speaker can count, with tolerable certainty, upon producing an impression something like that which he wishes upon the waking mind; but, when we sleep, we move out of the reach of his persuasive machinery. But although we cannot construct a dream, or order it beforehand, it may sometimes be directed while in progress with ludicrous effect. Many accounts are published of the way in which the thoughts of a dreamer, once fairly committed to the dream may be effected. He is played with helplessly. An
