He visited the merry-go-rounds, the chutes, the shooting-galleries, the swings, the boxing-booths, and then he came to where the bookmakers were standing in couples, dressed as nearly alike as possible, shouting themselves hoarse and red in the face.
As Frank stood listening to the man who was bawling huskily from the nearest stand, he felt a touch on the arm, and an insinuating voice said in his ear:
“I ’opes as ’ow you’re not thinkin’ of putting your good money with that gent, young sir. ’E’s not to be trusted. You might as well throw your good money hinto the wide, wide sea, sir. Now, sir, hit’s myself, ’Arry ’Awkins, of Deptford, wot can tell you ’ow to lay your stuff as to pick the winner. The gents wot patronize me get quids for hevery bob they put hup. I don’t waste my toime ’anging ’round pubs, but I’m hup hevery mornin’ on these downs a-watching the ’orses, hand I know what I tells yer is straight. You can trust ’Arry ’Awkins, of Deptford, hevery time.”
A smooth-faced fellow, in Scotch plaid and a bright red necktie, smiled into the boy’s face in a most enticing manner.
It was a tout, who was trying to sell tips on the races, and Frank immediately remembered that the fellow had been a passenger in a little coster’s cart that had hung close by him all the way from the Surrey side.
“I have no intention of betting on the races,” declared the boy; “so you are wasting your time with me.”
Mr. ’Awkins regarded him with a look of profound admiration.
“I see, sir,” he said, with a broad wink. “You knows too much to throw away your good stuff, sir. Hi take hit you’re from Hamerica, sir?”
“Didn’t I tell you that you were wasting your time,” came rather sharply from Frank. “You can’t work the riffle with me, my man.”
“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir; beggin’ yer pardon! You ’ave made a mistake in me, sir! I ham not that kind. You ’ave a bright face——”