Class will tell. Thirty yards from the tape, the red-haired kid tripped over her feet and shot her egg on to the turf. The freckled blonde fought gamely, but she had run herself out halfway down the straight, and Sarah Mills came past and home on a tight rein by several lengths, a popular winner. The blonde was second. A sniffing female in blue gingham beat a pie-faced kid in pink for the place-money, and Prudence Baxter, Jeeves’s long shot, was either fifth or sixth, I couldn’t see which.

And then I was carried along with the crowd to where old Heppenstall was going to present the prizes. I found myself standing next to the man Steggles.

“Hallo, old chap!” he said, very bright and cheery. “You’ve had a bad day, I’m afraid.”

I looked at him with silent scorn. Lost on the blighter, of course.

“It’s not been a good meeting for any of the big punters,” he went on. “Poor old Bingo Little went down badly over that Egg and Spoon Race.”