“Eleven to one; but I'll not take it again. Hecuba is rising hourly, and some say she 'll be the favorite yet.”
“Is Rufus your Lordship's horse?” said the Jew, insinuatingly.
Willoughby bowed, and continued to write in his note-book.
“And you said the betting was eleven to one on the field, my Lord?”
“It ought to be fourteen to one, at least.”
“I 'll give you fourteen to one, my Lord, just for the sake of a little interest in the race.”
Willoughby ceased writing, and looked at him steadfastly for a second or two. “I have not said that the odds were fourteen to one.”
“I understand you perfectly, my Lord; you merely thought that they would be, or, at least, ought to be.”
“Merl wants a bet with you, in fact,” said Martin, as he applied alight to his meerschaum; “and if you won't have him, I will.”
“What shall it be, sir,” said Lord Claude, pencil in hand; “in ponies—fifties?”