a thought to young Bingo. I suddenly remembered now that he had told me he would be at Goodwood.
“He is making an inflammatory speech at this very moment, specifically directed at me. Come! Where that crowd is.”
He lugged me along and, by using his weight scientifically, got us into the front rank.
“Look! Listen!”
Young Bingo was certainly tearing off some ripe stuff. Inspired by the agony of having put his little all on a stumer that hadn’t finished in the first six, he was fairly letting himself go on the subject of the blackness of the hearts of plutocratic owners who allowed a trusting public to imagine a horse was the real goods when it couldn’t trot the length of its stable without getting its