And, seeing the "bookies" a-layin',
I thought they knew more than I:
But _now_ I thought with a chuckle,
Let each look out for his eye.
The morning before the race, sir,
The owner turned up. With a smile
I showed 'im the mare--"There she is, sir,
Goin' jist in 'er same old style.
We'll win in a common canter,
'Painted Lady' and I, Sir Hugh,
As we've always done afore, sir;
As we always mean to do."
He looked at me just for a moment,
A shade of care seemed to pass
All over his handsome features.
Then he kicked at a tuft o' grass,
In a sort of a pet, then stammered,
As he lifted his eyes from his shoes,
"I'm sorry, my lad--very sorry,
But to-morrow the mare must _lose_."
He turned on his heel. I stood stroking
My "Lady's" soft shining skin,
Then I muttered, "I'm sorry, sir, very,
But to-morrow the mare must _win_."
* * * * *
I was 'tween two stools, as they say, sir--
If I disobeyed orders, Sir Hugh
Would "sack" me as safe as a trivet,
So I thought what I'd better do.
I wasn't so long, for I shouted,
"I've hit it! I'll _win_ this 'ere race,
And I'll lay fifty pounds to a sov'reign
As I don't get the 'kick' from my place.
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