Cup;" another from distant Siberia,
emerging from the primeval forests of that wondrous land of the future:
"Tenbobski Quitter Ebury Handicap." Bets are accepted in all denominations
from Victory Bonds to the cowrie-shells of West Africa.

Passing up the marble staircase and leaving the Home Department on our
right we arrive at the Stumer Section. Here a small army of ex-Scotland
Yard detectives are engaged in dealing with _mala-fide_ commissions--
attempts on the part of men of straw to make credit bets, or telegrams
despatched after a race is over.

Where shall we go next? We ask a courteous shopwalker, who in flawless
English advises us to try the Winter Gardens, where a delightful tea is
served at a minimum cost. Here, whilst sipping a fragrant cup of Orange
Pekoe, we can watch the large screen, on which the results of all races are
flashed within ten seconds of the horses passing the winning-post. At one
time, in fact, it was nothing unusual for Pryce's to have the results
posted before the horses had completed the course, but in deference to the
prejudices of certain purists this practice was abandoned.

Follows a hurried visit to the Library and Museum, where we gaze enthralled
at the original pair of pigeon-blue trousers with which Mr. Bookham Pryce
made his sensational _debut_ on the Lincoln course in the spring of 1894.
We might linger here a moment to muse over the simple beginnings of great
men, but time is pressing and we are all agog to visit the Bargain
Basement.

An express lift flashes us downwards in a few seconds and behold we are in
the midst of rows of counters groaning under bargains that even the New
Poor can scarce forbear to grasp.

Here, for example, is one-hundred-to-eight offered against Pincushion for
the Gimcrack Stakes. This wondrous animal's lineage and previous
performances are carefully tabulated on a card at the side, and,
remembering the form he showed at Gatwick, one wonders, as the man in the
street would say, how it is done.

Or look at Tom-tom, which left the others simply standing in a field of
forty-four at Kempton Park, and carrying eight-stone-seven. Here he has a
paltry four-pound penalty for the Worcester Welter Handicap, yet one can
have seven to one about him.

How the House of Pryce can offer such bargains is a mystery to the old
school of red-necked bookmakers, whose Oxford accent was not pronounced.
They fail to see what courtesy, urbanity and meat-teas at three