into a dull helpless mass that has no more conscious volition than a machine.  The animal remains on its feet, but exertion is impossible, and neither rein, whip, nor spur serves to stimulate the cunning poisoner’s victim.  About the facts there can now be no dispute:  and this last wretched story supplies a copestone to a pile of similar tales which has been in course of building during the past three or four years.  Enraged men have become outspoken, and things are now boldly printed and circulated which were mentioned only in whispers long ago.  The days of clumsy poisoning have gone by; the prowling villain no longer obtains entrance to a stable for the purpose of battering a horse’s leg or driving a nail into the frog of the foot; the ancient crude devices are used no more, for science has become the handmaid of scoundrelism.  When in 1811 a bad fellow squirted a solution of arsenic into a locked horse-trough, the evil trick was too clumsy to escape detection, and the cruel rogue was promptly caught and sent to the gallows; but we now have horse-poisoners who hold a secret similar to that which Palmer of Rugeley kept so long.  I say “a secret,” though every skilled veterinary surgeon knows how to administer morphia, and knows its effects; but the new practitioners contrive to send in the deadly injection of the drug in spite of the ceaseless vigilance of trainers, stablemen, detectives, and all other guards.  Now I ask any rational man who may have been tempted to bet, Is it worth while?  Leave out the morality for the present, and tell us whether you think it business-like to risk your money when you know that neither a horse’s speed nor a trainer’s skill will avail you when once an acute crew of sharpers have settled that a race must not be won by a certain animal.  The miserable creature whose case has served me for a text was tried at home during the second week of April; he carried four stone more than the very useful and fast horse which ran against him, and he merely amused himself by romping alongside of his opponent.  Again, when he took a preliminary canter before the drug had time to act, he moved with great strength and with the freedom of a greyhound; yet within three minutes he was no more than an inert mass of flesh and bone.  I say to the inexperienced gambler, “Draw your own conclusions, and if, after studying my words, you choose to tempt fortune any more, your fate—­your evil fate—­be on your own head, for nothing that I or any one else can do will save you.”

Not long before the melancholy and sordid case which I have described, and which is now gaining attention and rousing curiosity everywhere, a certain splendid steeplechaser was brought out to run for the most important of cross-country races.  He was a famous horse, and, like our Derby winner, he bore the fortunes of a good many people.  To the confusion and dismay of the men who made sure of his success, he was found to be stupified, and suffering from all the symptoms