On the shelf of a cupboard a polecat lies
    Laughing between his paws,
  And there’s more than a hint of amused surprise
  In the gape of the lynx, in the marten’s eyes,
    In the poise of the grey wolf’s claws.

  And, should you enter old Akbar’s lair
    And hear what he wants for his skins,
  You will know why the little red squirrels stare,
  Why the Bengal tiger gasps for air
    And the gaunt snow-leopard grins.

  J.M.S.

* * * * *

The Telephone Girl’s motto:  Nulla linea sine die—­“Number engaged; ring again and again, please.”

* * * * *

ALAS!  POOR PANTHER.

I went to the Derby fully intending to back the favourite—­The Panther.

But the cross-currents immediately set in—­as they always do.

I began by making the mistake of reading the forecasts of all the experts—­the gallant Captains and Majors, the Men on the Course, the Men on the Heath, the Men on the Spot—­all of whom, although they mostly favoured The Panther, had serious views as to dangerous rivals, supported by what looked like uncontrovertible arguments.

I also had an early evening paper with a summary of forecasts, none of which (as it was to turn out) mentioned the winner at all.

I was even so foolish as to glance at some of the advertisements of the wizards who are so ready to put the benefit of their knowledge at the service of the public and make fortunes for others rather (apparently) than for themselves, all of whom hinted at some mysterious long-priced outsider whose miraculous qualities of speed were a secret.  But of course I was too late to profit by these; they merely unsettled me.

Not content with this I was forced to overhear the conversation of others in our compartment, each of whom fancied a separate animal, arguing with reasons that could not be gainsaid.

In this way I learned that The Panther would win in a canter and would be badly beaten; that he was a stranger to the Epsom course; that he was ready for anything; that he liked soft going; that he was no good except when he could hear his hoofs rattle; that his jockey was not strong enough; that his jockey was ideal; that he was sounder than any horse had ever been, and that trouble was brewing.

All this naturally left me shaken as to my first decision.  Was I wise, I asked myself, to trust all my eggs (forgive, Sir ALEC BLACK, the poorness of this metaphor) to one doubtful basket?

Having admitted an element of doubt I was the prey of every suspicion and began to consider the other candidates.  All Alone headed the list.  I liked the name, because it suggested the corollary:  the rest nowhere.  Also it belonged to a lady—­to the only lady owner, in fact—­and lady—­owners were said (by a man with a red beard opposite me who smoked cigarettes so short that I was certain it was made of dyed asbestos) to be in luck this season.  “Always follow the luck,” he added.  But then, on the other hand, what could be more lucky than Colonel BUCHAN, author of Mr. Standfast and an excellent History of the War, into whose lap so many good things fall?  Why not back a horse named after him?  Besides, was not Buchan third favourite?