“Butcher's mare,” said I, hazarding a guess.
“Ah, you 've been looking after her already,” said he, surprised. “Well, to tell you the truth, that was one of my objects in coming here to-night. I heard that some of these skipper fellows had got the winning ticket: I paid twenty dollars to the office-clerk to see the number, and determine to buy it up. Here it is. Can you read these figures? for, hang me if the punch, or the heat, or the dancing, has not made me quite dizzy.”
“Let me see: Number 438,” said I, repeating it a couple of times over.
“Yes, that is it. If I could have chanced on it, I 'd have run down to-morrow by the 'Christobal.' She lies about a mile out, and will weigh with the ebb, at eight o'clock. That mare—she killed Butcher by a down leap over a rock, but never scratched herself—is worth at least a thousand dollars.”
“I offered eight hundred for her on mere character,” said I, sitting back, and sipping my liquid with a most profound quietude.
Falkoner was evidently surprised with this announcement; but more so from the rakish indifference it betrayed about money, than as bespeaking me rich and affluent. And thus we chatted away till the black waiter made his appearance to open the windows and prepare for the work of the day.
“Where are you stopping?” said Falkoner, as we arose from the table.
“At Condor House,” said I, boldly giving the name of a very flash hotel. “But it's too noisy; I don't like it.”
“Nor do I. It's confoundedly expensive, too. I wish you would come to Herrick's; it is not quite so stylish, perhaps, but I think the cookery is better, and you 'd not pay five dollars a bottle for Madeira, and eight for Champagne.”
“That is smart,” said I. “They 've not let me have my bill yet; but I fancied they were costly folk.”