H.M. inspected the track. He sniffed. He ran his eye critically over the horses, like one inspecting a parade at Epsom. Then something seemed to take hold of him as though with hands, and he swung round.
"I’ll give you five to one the field," he burst out."And eight to one," he glanced behind him, "Blue Boy." His eyes gleamed. "I’ll tell you what I’ll do: I'll give you ten to one on Blue Boy!"
Ricky sprang forward.
"Here's ten bob on Blue Boy," said Ricky, slapping the money down on the corresponding counter-space. "And, just for luck, I’ll have another ten bob on Squaw's Feather"
"For myself," said Stannard, instantly whipping out his note-case, "I fancy Bright-Eyes. With the dark brown colour; eh, Ruth? One pound on Bright-Eyes!"
"Uh-huh. One pound on Bright-Eyes," repeated H.M., who had scrabbled out with a notebook and the stub of a pencil, and was hastily recording. Then he lifted his voice to the whole fair-ground.
'I’ll give you five to one the field," he bellowed. "Anybody want to make a little bet?"
"Goddelmighty!" whispered Chief Inspector Masters.
Now there are many words which will instantly rivet or turn the attention of an English crowd. You may say them over to yourself. But perhaps none is quite so potent as the word 'bet.' Materializing and mingling, the crowd pressed in ten-deep towards the counter, with cries and queries.
The man behind the counter, who had swallowed his broomstraw as he leaped up, now appeared to be racked by the convulsions of cyanide poisoning. He was writhing forward across the race-track, his hands outstretched.