Immediately before starting at Normanton, Charley was told that he was not to win, because his backers wanted to make big money at Croydon.
Charley ran a good second most of the way, made a spurt, and breasted the tape yards to the good.
Taken aside, his friends angrily remonstrated with him. "Look here, Charley, what's the matter? I bin tell you run second. You come first—you spoil everything!"
"Carn help it, Dick. Carn help it. Me bin bolt."
THE RUSE THAT FAILED
Miners in isolated camps where writing paper is not always available, scribble their orders for rations upon hastily tom margins of newspapers. A cute old black fellow named Bill who had frequently been entrusted with such notes and had borne away goods presented a scrap of paper innocent of writing at the store.
"What? This from Tom?" asked the storekeeper naming one of his customers while he ran his eye over the paper.
"Yowi! Tom bin make 'em."
"What this fella talk?"
"That fella talk plour; sugar, tea; two stick Derby," and, as a brilliant after thought—"bottle rum!"