He never takes the trouble to
show any deference towards his admirers; their amorous glances and
giggling are inevitable tributes to his fascinations, and he takes it
all as a matter of course. Like Blackey and the Ramper, Jerry never does
any work, and he is supposed to have private means. His speech is quite
correct, and even elegant, and although he does not converse on exalted
topics, he is a singularly pleasant companion in his way. Most of his
talk is about horse-racing, and he never reads anything but the sporting
papers. In that taste he resembles most of those who go to The Chequers.
The wrangling, the cursing, the whispered confidences that make up the
nightly volume of noise nearly all have reference to racing subjects.
The raggedest wretch at the bar puts on horsey airs when any great race
is to be decided; he may not know a horse from a mule, but he invariably
volunteers his opinion, and if he can raise a shilling he backs his
fancy. Polite gentlemen in Parliament and elsewhere do not appear to
know that there are something like one million British adults whose
chief interest in life (apart from their necessary daily work) is
centred on racing.
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