“Too late, sir. Bet booked. I never alter my entries. What’s the matter?”
“I thought Jim Crow was such a perfectly safe horse, but I hear—”
A gasp stopped the man’s utterance. “Well, what have you heered?”
“That—that Lady Tilborough’s horse is going to run after all.”
“Lady Tilborough’s mare’s scratched, they say, Mr Trimmer.”
“No, no. I have it on the best authority. She’s going to run.”
“Oh, they say anything in the ring. Don’t you take no notice. You’ve put your money on a good horse, and you’ve got to chance it, of course. I’ve a big pot on there.”
“So I hear, Mr Simpkins,” said the agent; “but I’m a poor man. I only bet on sure things, and I must withdraw this bet.”
“Too late, sir; can’t be done now.”
“But it must; it must I will have it back,” cried the agent, fiercely.