“That’s it, sir. Don’t do them any harm, and if a gent leaves his betting-book in the breast-pocket of the coat as has to go down to be brushed, I don’t see anything in it. ’Tain’t robbery.”
“H’m!” coughed the butler, glancing behind him; “no, it isn’t robbery, Orthur.”
“Lor’! Mr Roach, sir; it’s as easy as easy,” whispered the footman, eagerly. “I can’t think what we’ve been about—I beg pardon, sir—what I’ve been about all these months not to have put a little money on here and there. Want o’ capital mostly, sir, but with all doo respect to my superiors, sir, if you and me was to make a sort o’ Co. of it, and I was to tell you all I heard and found out by accident like, and you was to do the same with me, then we could talk it over together in the pantry, and settle how much we’d put on the race.”
The butler frowned, shook his head, and looked dissatisfied.
“I know it’s asking a deal of you, Mr Roach, sir, but it would only be like business and I should never presume, you know.”
“I must think about it, Orthur; I must think about it,” said the butler, importantly.
“Do, sir; and I wouldn’t lose no time about it. You see, we can’t do much when we’re down at The Towers, and the Randan Stakes is on next week.”
“H’m, yes,” said the butler, relaxing a little, and condescending to a smile. “Orthur, I’ve got a sovereign on the favourite.”
“You have, sir? What! on Ajax?”
“That’s right, my lad; and I advise you to put half-a-crown or five shillings on ’im too. There’s a tip for you.”