"Come on, Tom! Come on, Jimmy! Begor' the father have it!" yelled the crowd, as Kenny père, flourishing his whip over his grey head, finished half a length in front of his son.
"Them two tight wheels at the corner, 'twas there he squeezed the advantage on the son."
"No, but the father had a drop taken, 'twas that that gave him the heart."
Dr. Fraser and I got off our fence and steered for Lyney.
He was in the act of throwing the reins on the pony's neck and himself off her back as we arrived.
"Here!" he said to the owner, "take your old skin!"—he tossed his whip on to the ground—"and your old whip too!"
The owner took the "old skin" by her drooping and dripping head, and picked up the whip, in reverential submission, and the ring of admirers evidently accepted this mood of the hero as entirely befitting his dignity.
Dr. Fraser advanced through them with the effortless impressiveness of a big woman, and made her enquiries about the pony. Lyney dropped the hero manner.
"I don't at all doubt but John Sullivan's gone up to Lynch's for her, Doctor; you needn't be uneasy at all," he said, with a respect that must have greatly enhanced our position in the eyes of the crowd. "I told him he shouldn't bring her too soon for fear she'd sour on us. We have an hour yet."
Soothed by this assurance we moved on, and even, in this moment of unexpected leisure, dallied with the roulette table. I had, in fact, lost ninepence, when the remainder of the search-party bore down upon us at speed.