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Then from the stands came a murmur like bees, a muttering as of a man talking in his sleep, a growling as of wind in a cave. This only served to intensify the silence of a defeated people. One knew that something awful must be happening. Perhaps even Polumetis was winning. Above the heads of the crowd the heads of jockeys began to be visible. A fool cried out: "The favourite wins."
The crowd began pouring itself through itself, and the dust from its feet rose like a cloud till it was difficult to see across the course. And the motor-car broke down on the way home. And Polumetis didn't win. And I'm as tired as a dog.... And so say all of us. Everything has begun to have a blasted look till the sun shines.
It is said that an important horse-race took place. It is even said that Polumetis ran in it. I looked for him everywhere over people's heads, under people's heads, through motor-buses, round the corners of refreshment tents, in the sky above, and on the earth beneath. But no Polumetis was to be seen anywhere except on my race-card, where I read about his lilac-coloured jockey.
If, having looked at the elephantine portrait advertisement of one of them, you wished to bet with him, he would consent in a listless way, and say wearily to his clerk: "Nine-nine-one, seventy shillings to a dollar Polumetis," as he handed you a blue, red, and green card. I do not blame him for not being enthusiastic. I am myself no longer enthusiastic about Polumetis.
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