(_A Sketch at a Sea-side Race-Meeting._)
SCENE--_The Sands at Baymouth, where some pony and horse races
are being run. By the Grand Stand, and under the wall of
the esplanade, about a dozen bookmakers, perched on old
packing-cases, are clamouring with their customary energy. The
public, however, for some reason seems unusually deaf to
their blandishments and disinclined for speculation, and the
bookmakers, after shouting themselves hoarse with little or no
result, are beginning to feel discouraged._
_Bookmakers_ (_antiphonally_). Evens on the field! Three to one bar
one! Five to one bar two! Six to one bar one! Even money _Beeswing!_
Six to one _Popgun!_ Come on 'ere. Two to one on the field! What do
you want to _do?_
[_The public apparently want to look another way._
_First Bookmaker_ (_to_ Second Bookmaker). Not much 'ere to-day!
Shawn't get no roast baked and biled this journey, eh?
_Second B._ (_with deep disgust_). They ain't _got_ no money!
Baymouth's going down. Why, this might be a bloomin' Sunday-school
treat! Blest if I believe they know what we're 'ere _for!_
_Third B._ (_after pausing to refresh himself, sardonically to_ Fourth
Bookmaker). De-lightful weather, WILLIAM!
_William_ (_in a similar tone of irony_). What a glorious day, PERCY!
Sech a treat to see all the people enjoyin' theirselves without any o'
the silly speculation yer _do_ find sometimes on occasions like this!
(_He accepts the bottle his friend passes, and drinks._) 'Ere's better
luck to us all!
_Fifth B._ (_pathetically_). Don't leave your little FREDDY out!
(_They DON'T leave their little FREDDY out._) Cheer up, WILLIAM, there
's 'appier days in store; there'll be Jersey comin' soon. We'll be orf
to the sunny south! (_To a stranger who comes up to him._) Why, Uncle,
you don't say it's you! How _well_ you're looking! Shake 'ands and
'ave a bit on, jest for ole sake's sake! (_The stranger proceeds to
introduce himself as the_ Secretary, _and to demand a fee._) What!
pay you five shillins for standin' 'ere wastin' my time and voice like
this? Not me! Why, I aint took two blessed sorcepans since I bin
'ere! (_The_ Secretary _remains firm._) I won't do it, my boy. Not on
_prinserple_, I won't. I wouldn't give you five shillins not if your
tongue was 'anging down on to your boots--so there! (_The_ Secretary
_does not attempt so violent an appeal to his better nature, but calls
a police-inspector._) 'Ere, I'd sooner git down and chuck the show
altogether; jest to mark my contempt for such goings on! (_He descends
from his box; takes down his sign, unscrews his pole, folds up his
professional triptych, and departs in a state of virtuous indignation
only to be expressed by extreme profanity, while the_ Secretary
_proceeds unmoved to collect payments from the others; who eventually
compromise the claims for half-a-crown._)
_Mr. Sam Satchell_ (_"from Southampton"_). Now then, you gentlemen
and aristocratic tradesmen, where _are_ you all? Don't any o' you know
_anything?_ Come on 'ere. (_He stops an elderly rustic._) You've got a
fancy, I can see! (_The rustic denies the impeachment, grinning._) Git
along with yer, yer artful ole puss, then, and don't keep gentlemen
away as wants to bet! (_To a Yeomanry trooper._) Come along, my ole
soldier-boy, give it a name! (_His old soldier-boy declines to give it
any name, and passes on._) Call yerself a warrior bold, and afraid o'
riskin' 'alf-a-crown! Why, yer Queen and country orter be ashamed o'
yer! (_As a young farmer in riding-gaiters come up, with the evident
intention of business._) Ah, _you_ don't forget the old firm, I
see.... What, four to one not good enough for you? You won't get no
better odds, go where you _like!_ I suppose you expeck me to make you
a present o' the money? (_The farmer moves on._) I dunno what's _come_
to 'em all. _I_ never see nothing like it in all _my_ life!