"At Punchestown!" exclaimed half-a-dozen voices. "There's something up! You've got a good thing, cut and dried. It's no use, Daisy! Tell us all about it!"
Walters turned from one to another with an expression of innocent surprise. He looked as if he had never heard of a steeple-chase in his life.
"I don't know what you fellows call 'a good thing,'" said he. "When I drop into one I'll put you all on, you may be sure. No. I must be at Punchestown simply because I've got to ride there."
"I'm sorry for the nag," observed the billiard-player, who had finished (and lost) his game. "What is it?"
"She's a mare none of you ever heard of," answered Daisy. "They call her Satanella. She can gallop a little, I think."
"Is she going for this new handicap?" asked a shrill voice out of a cloud of tobacco smoke in the corner.
"It's her best chance, if she ever comes to the post," replied Daisy. "They're crushing weights, though, and the course is over four miles."
"Back her, me boy! And I'll stand in with ye!" exclaimed an Irish peer, handsome in spite of years, jovial in spite of gout, good-hearted in spite of fashion, and good-humoured in spite of everything. "Is she an Irish-bred one? Roscommon did ye say? Ah, now, back for a monkey, and I'll go ye halves! We'll let them see how we do't in Kildare!"
Daisy would have liked nothing better; but people do not lay "monkeys" on steeple-chases at one o'clock in the morning. Nevertheless curiosity had been excited about Satanella, and his cross-examination continued.
"Is she thorough-bred?" asked a cornet of the household cavalry, whose simple creed for man and beast, or rather horse and woman, was summed up in these two articles—blood and good looks.