“Confound them,” he would say, “there are curs without fluff on their chins that know the odds at Newmarket as well as John Day! What chance has a man with youngsters that understand the 'call for trumps'?”
It was thus moralizing over a world in decline that he strolled through the garden, his unlit cigar held firm between his teeth, and his hands deep sunk in his trousers' pockets. As he turned an angle of a walk, he was arrested by a very silky voice saying, “Your honor's welcome home. I hope your honor's well, and enjoyed yourself when you were away.”
“Ah, O'Reardon, that you! pretty well, thank you; quite well, I believe; at least, as well as any man can be who is in want of money, and does not know where to find it.”
Mr. O'Reardon grinned, as if that, at least, was one of the contingencies his affluent chief could never have had any experience of. “Moses is to run after all, sir,” said he, after a pause; “the bandages was all a sham,—he never broke down.”
“So much the worse for me. I took the heavy odds against him on your fine information,” said Sewell, savagely.
“You 'll not be hurt this time. He 'll have a tongue as big as three on the day of the race; and there will be no putting a bridle on him.”
“I don't believe in that trick, O'Reardon.”
“I do, sir; and I'm laying the only ten-pound note I have on it,” said the other, calmly.
“What about Mary Draper? is she coughing still?”
“She is, sir, and won't feed besides; but Mr. Harman is in such trouble about his wife going off with Captain Peters, that he never thinks of the mare. Any one goes into the stable that likes.”