In Which Barnabas Makes a Bet, and Receives a Warning

The fifteenth of July was approaching, and the Polite World, the
World of Fashion, was stirred to its politest depths. In the clubs
speculation was rife, the hourly condition of horses and riders was
discussed gravely and at length, while betting-books fluttered
everywhere. In crowded drawing-rooms and dainty boudoirs, love and
horse-flesh went together, and everywhere was a pleasurable
uncertainty, since there were known to be at least four competitors
whose chances were practically equal. Therefore the Polite World,
gravely busied with its cards or embroidery, and at the same time
striving mentally to compute the exact percentage of these chances,
was occasionally known to revoke, or prick its dainty finger.

Even that other and greater world, which is neither fashionable nor
polite,--being too busy gaining the wherewithal to exist,--even in
fetid lanes and teeming streets, in dingy offices and dingier places
still, the same excitement prevailed; busy men forgot their business
awhile; crouching clerks straightened their stooping backs, became
for the nonce fabulously rich, and airily bet each other vast sums
that Carnaby's "Clasher" would do it in a canter, that Viscount
Devenham's "Moonraker" would have it in a walk-over, that the
Marquis of Jerningham's "Clinker" would leave the field nowhere, and
that Captain Slingsby's "Rascal" would run away with it.

Yes, indeed, all the world was agog, rich and poor, high and low.
Any barefooted young rascal scampering along the kennel could have
named you the four likely winners in a breath, and would willingly
have bet his ragged shirt upon his choice, had there been any takers.