"How did you hear it?"
Stack drew his chair a little closer. "I've been up at Chalk Farm, the
'Yarborough Arms'; you know, where the 'buses stop. Bob Barrett does a
deal of business up there. He pays the landlord's rent for the use of the
bar--Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays is his days. Charley Grove bets
there Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, but it is Bob that does the
biggest part of the business. They say he's taken as much as twenty pounds
in a morning. You know Bob, a great big man, eighteen stun if he's an
ounce. He's a warm 'un, can put it on thick."
"I know him; he do tell fine stories about the girls; he has the pick of
the neighbourhood, wears a low hat, no higher than that, with a big brim.
I know him. I've heard that he 'as moved up that way. Used at one time to
keep a tobacconist's shop in Great Portland Street."
"That's him," said Stack. "I thought you'd heard of him."
"There ain't many about that I've not heard of. Not that I likes the man
much. There was a girl I knew--she wouldn't hear his name mentioned. But
he lays fair prices, and does, I believe, a big trade."
"'As a nice 'ome at Brixton, keeps a trap; his wife as pretty a woman as
you could wish to lay eyes on. I've seen her with him at Kempton."
"You was up there this morning?"
"Yes."
"It wasn't Bob Barrett that gave you the tip?"
"Not likely." The men laughed, and then Stack said--
"You know Bill Evans? You've seen him here, always wore a blue Melton
jacket and billycock hat; a dark, stout, good-looking fellow; generally
had something to sell, or pawn-tickets that he would part with for a
trifle."
"Yes, I know the fellow. We met him down at Epsom one Derby Day. Sarah
Tucker, a friend of the missis, was dead gone on him."
"Yes, she went to live with him. There was a row, and now, I believe,
they're together again; they was seen out walking. They're friends,
anyhow. Bill has been away all the summer, tramping. A bad lot, but one of
them sort often hears of a good thing."
"So it was from Bill Evans that you heard it."
"Yes, it was from Bill. He has just come up from Eastbourne, where he 'as
been about on the Downs a great deal. I don't know if it was the horses he
was after, but in the course of his proceedings he heard from a shepherd
that Ben Jonson was doing seven hours' walking exercise a day. This seemed
to have fetched Bill a bit. Seven hours a day walking exercise do seem a
bit odd, and being at the same time after one of the servants in the
training stable--as pretty a bit of goods as he ever set eyes on, so Bill
says--he thought he'd make an inquiry or two about all this walking
exercise. One of the lads in the stable is after the girl, too, so Bill
found out very soon all he wanted to know. As you says, the 'orse is dicky
on 'is forelegs, that is the reason of all the walking exercise."
"And they thinks they can bring him fit to the post and win the
Cesarewitch with him by walking him all day?"
"I don't say they don't gallop him at all; they do gallop him, but not as
much as if his legs was all right."
"That won't do. I don't believe in a 'orse winning the Cesarewitch that
ain't got four sound legs, and old Ben ain't got more than two."
"He's had a long rest, and they say he is sounder than ever he was since
he won the Great Ebor. They don't say he'd stand no galloping, but they
don't want to gallop him more than's absolutely necessary on account of
the suspensory ligament; it ain't the back sinew, but the suspensory
ligament. Their theory is this, that it don't so much matter about
bringing him quite fit to the post, for he's sure to stay the course; he'd
do that three times over. What they say is this, that if he gets in with
seven stone, and we brings him well and three parts trained, there ain't
no 'orse in England that can stand up before him. They've got another in
the race, Laurel Leaf, to make the running for him; it can't be too strong
for old Ben. You say to yourself that he may get let off with six-seven.
If he do there'll be tons of money on him. He'll be backed at the post at
five to one. Before the weights come out they'll lay a hundred to one on
the field in any of the big clubs. I wouldn't mind putting a quid on him
if you'll join me."
"Better wait until the weights come out," said Journeyman, "for if it
happened to come to Courtney's ears that old Ben could be trained he'd
clap seven-ten on him without a moment's hesitation."
"You think so?" said Stack.
"I do," said Journeyman.
"But you agree with me that if he got let off with anything less than
seven stone, and be brought fit, or thereabouts, to the post, that the
race is a moral certainty for him?"
"A thousand to a brass farthing."
"Mind, not a word."
"Is it likely?"
The conversation paused a moment, and Journeyman said, "You've not seen my
'andicap for the Cambridgeshire. I wonder what you'd think of that?" Stack
said he would be glad to see it another time, and suggested that they go
downstairs.
"I'm afraid the police is in," said Stack, when he opened the door.
"Then we'd better stop where we are; I don't want to be took to the
station."
They listened for some moments, holding the door ajar.
"It ain't the police," said Stack, "but a row about some bet. Latch had
better be careful."
The cause of the uproar was a tall young English workman, whose beard was
pale gold, and whose teeth were white. He wore a rough handkerchief tied
round his handsome throat. His eyes were glassy with drink, and his
comrades strove to quieten him.
"Leave me alone," he exclaimed; "the bet was ten half-crowns to one. I
won't stand being welshed."
William's face flushed up. "Welshed!" he said. "No one speaks in this bar
of welshing." He would have sprung over the counter, but Esther held him
back.
"I know what I'm talking about; you let me alone," said the young workman,
and he struggled out of the hands of his friends. "The bet was ten
half-crowns to one."
"Don't mind what he says, guv'nor."
"Don't mind what I says!" For a moment it seemed as if the friends were
about to come to blows, but the young man's perceptions suddenly clouded,
and he said, "In this blo-ody bar last Monday... horse backed in
Tattersall's at twelve to one taken and offered."
"He don't know what he's talking about; but no one must accuse me of
welshing in this 'ere bar."
"No offence, guv'nor; mistakes will occur."
William could not help laughing, and he sent Teddy upstairs for Monday's
paper. He pointed out that eight to one was being asked for about the
horse on Monday afternoon at Tattersall's. The stage door-keeper and a
scene-shifter had just come over from the theatre, and had managed to
force their way into the jug and bottle entrance. Esther and Charles had
been selling beer and spirits as fast as they could draw it, but the
disputed bet had caused the company to forget their glasses.
"Just one more drink," said the young man. "Take the ten half-crowns out
in drinks, guv'nor, that's good enough. What do you say, guv'nor?"
"What, ten half-crowns?" William answered angrily. "Haven't I shown you
that the 'orse was backed at Tattersall's the day you made the bet at
eight to one?"
"Ten to one, guv'nor."
"I've not time to go on talking.... You're interfering with my business.
You must get out of my bar."
"Who'll put me out?"
"Charles, go and fetch a policeman."
At the word "policeman" the young man seemed to recover his wits somewhat,
and he answered, "You'll bring in no bloody policeman. Fetch a policeman!
and what about your blooming betting--what will become of it?" William
looked round to see if there was any in the bar whom he could not trust.
He knew everyone present, and believed he could trust them all. There was
but one thing to do, and that was to put on a bold face and trust to luck.
"Now out you go," he said, springing over the counter, "and never you set
your face inside my bar again." Charles followed the guv'nor over the
counter like lightning, and the drunkard was forced into the street. "He
don't mean no 'arm," said one of the friends; "he'll come round to-morrow
and apologise for what he's said."
"I don't want his apology," said William. "No one shall call me a welsher
in my bar.... Take your friend away, and never let me see him in my bar
again."
Suddenly William turned very pale. He was seized with a fit of coughing,
and this great strong man leaned over the counter very weak indeed. Esther
led him into the parlour, leaving Charles to attend to the customers. His
hand trembled like a leaf, and she sat by his side holding it. Mr. Blamy
came in to ask if he should lay one of the young gentlemen from the
tutor's thirty shillings to ten against the favourite. Esther said that
William could attend to no more customers that day. Mr. Blamy returned ten
minutes after to say that there was quite a number of people in the bar;
should he refuse to take their money?
"Do you know them all?" said William.
"I think so, guv'nor."
"Be careful to bet with no one you don't know; but I'm so bad I can hardly
speak."
"Much better send them away," said Esther.
"Then they'll go somewhere else."
"It won't matter; they'll come back to where they're sure of their money."
"I'm not so sure of that," William answered, feebly. "I think it will be
all right, Teddy; you'll be very careful."
"Yes, guv'nor, I'll keep down the price."