"Thoroughbred?" repeated Daisy thoughtfully. "Her sire is I'm sure, and she's out of a 'Connemara mare,' as they say in Ireland, whatever that may be."
"I know," observed the peer, with a wink. "Ah, ye divil, ye've got your lesson perfect annyhow."
"Do you want to back her?" asked a tall, thin man, who had hitherto kept silence, drawing at the same time a very business-like betting-book from his breast-pocket.
"You ought to lay long odds," answered Daisy. "The race will fill well. There are sure to be a lot of starters, and no end of falls. Hang it! I suppose I am bound to have something on. I'll tell you what. I'll take twelve to one in hundreds—there!"
"I'll lay you ten," said the other.
"Done!" replied Daisy. "A thousand to a hundred." And he entered it methodically in his book, looking round, pencil in mouth, to know "if anybody would do it again?"
"I'll lay you eight to one in ponies." Daisy nodded, and put down the name of the billiard-player. "And I in tens!" exclaimed another. "And I don't mind laying you seven!" screamed a shrill voice from the corner, "if you'll have it in fifties." Whereat Daisy shook his head, but accepted the offer nevertheless ere he shut up his book, observing calmly that "he was full now, and must have something more to drink."
"And who does this mare belong to?" asked a man who had just come in. "It's a queer game, steeple-chasing, even with gentlemen up. I like to know something about owners before I back my little fancy, for or against."
"Well, she's more mine than anybody else's," answered Daisy, buttoning his overcoat to depart. "There's only one thing certain about her, and that is—she'll start if she's alive, and she'll win if she can!"
With these words he disappeared through the swing-doors into the empty street, walking leisurely homeward, with the contented step of one who has done a good day's work, and earned his repose.