So I returned and somehow found myself pledged to
compete as a Progressive for the next London County Council--for a
constituency down Bethnal Green way. In all this, you see, my orbit
and Foe's wouldn't often intersect. But we dined together on
birthdays and other occasions. One year I took him down to the
Derby, on the ground that it was part of a liberal education. In the
paddock he nodded at a horse in blinkers and said, "What's the matter
with that fellow?" "St. Amant," said I, and began to explain why
Hayhoe had put blinkers on him. "Where does he stand in the
betting?" asked Foe. "Why, man," said I, "at 5 to 1. You can't risk
good money on a horse of that temper. I've put mine on the French
horse over there--Gouvernant--easy favourite--7 to 4 on." "Oh," said
he, in a silly sort of way, "I thought St. Amant might be your French
horse--it's a French name isn't it? . . . As for your Gouvernant, I
advise you to run for your life and hedge: the animal is working up
for a stage fright. A touch more and he's dished before the flag
drops. Now, whether the blinkers have done it or not, that St.
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