“I am charmed to hear it. Would you just tell him that mine are getting very tired here?”
“Will Lawson pay that handicap to George Hobart?”
Tony shook his head to imply total ignorance of all concerned.
“He needn't, you know; at least, Saville Harris refused to book up to Whitemare on exactly the same grounds. It was just this way: here was the winning-post—no, here; that seal there was the grand stand; when the mare came up, she was second. I don't think you care for racing, eh?”
“A steeple-chase; yes, particularly when I'm a rider. But what I care most for just now is a plunge into cold water and a good breakfast.”
There was something actually touching in the commiserating look the attaché gave Tony as he turned away and left the room. What was the public service to come to if these were the fellows to be named as messengers?
In a very few minutes he was back again in the room. “Where's Naples?” asked he, curtly.
“Where's Naples? Where it always was, I suppose,” said Tony, doggedly,—“in the Gulf of that name.”
“I mean the bag,—the Naples bag: it is under flying seal, and Sir Joseph wants to see the despatches.”
“Oh, that is below in the cab. I 'll go down and fetch it;” and without waiting for more, he hastened downstairs. The cab was gone. “Naturally enough,” thought Tony, “he got tired waiting; he's off to order breakfast.”