He handed it to Bones. It read:
"Mercutio 17178."
Bones looked at it a moment, then gasped. He reached out his hand solemnly and grasped that of the astounded Hamilton.
"Dear old fellow," he said in a broken voice, "Congratulate me, I have drawn a runner!"
"A runner?"
"A runner, dear old sport," chortled Bones, "in the Cambridgeshire! You see I've got a ticket number seventeen, seventeen eight in my pocket, dear old friend! If Mercutio wins," he repeated solemnly, "I will stand you the finest dinner that can be secured this side of Romano's."