For myself, if I had sufficient money to make me dissatisfied with myself, I would like to own a racehorse—a real racehorse with a tartan blanket, canary legs, and red nostrils like scooped-out tomatoes. I wouldn't worry about his teeth, to which some people attach so much importance. After all, a racehorse is not a wrestler. If he can run hard enough there is no need for him to bite the horse in front, and if he can't he won't get close enough to use his teeth anyway. I think a nice pair of red nostrils is a very important part of a racehorse; it is an indication that he is a “snorter” and is able to scoop up his fair share of galloping-fuel without getting hiccoughs and giving his jockey the jumps.

I can think of nothing more conducive to a feeling of Power than to be on snorting terms with an animal who is so regal that his subjects whisper in his presence and take the oat of allegiance to his rule.

I have always envied the Aga Khan—not for his wealth of elephant tusks and tigers' tails, not for his teeming millions, his Indian ink wells and his

“The greatest advantage of a lot of money is that it enables you to slip back to where you were before you had any.”

coral strands, but because he owns racehorses who treat him as an equal. That is sufficient to establish any man's self-respect—no matter how much money he has. To be accepted by such proud and haughty animals is enough to make one feel that he is not quite such a ham as his protographer makes him.