A judge
of horseflesh from the cradle, he had spotted the winner every time,
backed his fancy like a little man and had been very generously
rewarded by the Totalizator. He was contemplating a trip to Brussels
in a day or so. Was his dear old friend Albert Edward coming?
His "dear old friend" (who was eating his thumb-nails instead of his
savoury) scowled and said he thought not.
The gunner wagged his head sagely. "Ah, well, old chap, if you
will bet on horses which roar like a den of lions you must take the
consequences."
Albert Edward writhed. "That animal used to win sprints in England; do
you know that?"
Mr. Cazenove shrugged his shoulders.
"He may have thirty years ago. All I'd back him to win now would be an
old-age pension. Well, I warned you, didn't I?"
Albert Edward lost control. "When I'm reduced to taking advice on
racing form from a Tasmanian I'll chuck the game and hie me to a
monkery. Why, look at that bit of bric-a-brac you were riding to-day;
a decent God-fearing Australian wouldn't be seen dead in a ten-acre
paddock with it."
Mr. Cazenove spluttered even more furiously. "That's a dashed good
horse I'll have you know."
"I am not alluding to his morals, but to his appearance," said Albert
Edward; "I've seen better-looking hat-racks."
"I'd back him to lick the stuffing out of anything you've got in this
unit, anyway," Cazenove snorted.
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