"I have a shillin' on meself," replied Andy, leaning forward victoriously.
"Cosy in the trinches they might be the ways they is chattin'," said a disturbed and embittered onlooker, who had backed the big horse; "an' even the obbjectin' won't save us now with that Kinnat out there in front. Someone suggested obbjectin' to both for conspiracy and colloquy.
"If we could rowl a hat or two accidental to swherve thim," suggested another backer of the favourite, "an' let Rooney up."
Someone else declared the two were too tirened out to mind any hats, but the big horse was coming on. James Rourke bent down and called something out to little Andy, something emphatic.
Andy shook his head, Rourke bent again, and the next moment the Rat, instead of passing the post, made for the waiting hounds, sailing through the crowd dexterously.
And in a hail of hats and a hurricane of yells, the dun went past the post at his lobbing gallop, with That's the Boy's head just at his girth and well past him before they pulled up.
Darby declined to give the cup if there were any objections, but he went on to Andy to demand explanation.
"Well, you see, me Mama would take the cup for the parlour, an' he offered me two pounds of them twelve to pull out," said Andy equably; "an' he a dacent bye that won't break his word; so I pulled out, and that was the thraffic there was betune us."
"And such is Irish racing," said Darby thoughtfully. "You send that pony home, Andy, and ride old Dobbin to hounds."
Basil Stafford said that if he laughed any more he knew something would give way.