I shall just pull as far as the boathouse and get myself a cup of tea." Because it always seems to be his Day.
There is no sense of happy medium about the hero of the popular novel.

He cannot get astride a horse without its going off and winning a steeplechase against the favourite.

The crowd in Novel-land appears to have no power of observation.

It worries itself about the odds, discusses records, reads the nonsense published by the sporting papers.
Were I to find myself on a racecourse in Novel-land I should not trouble about the unessential; I should go up to the bookie who looked as if he had the most money, and should say to him: "Don't shout so loud; you are making yourself hoarse.

Just listen to me.
Who's the hero of this novel?
Oh, that's he, is it?
The heavy-looking man on the little brown horse that keeps coughing and is suffering apparently from bone spavin?
Well, what are the odds against his winning by ten lengths?
A thousand to one! Very well! Have you got a bag ?--Good.