"Hullo!" said French. "Good! When did you arrive?"
"Last train," said Mr. Dashwood. "I say it's all right. I paid that chap's fine, and lugged him back to The Martens, and he's there now, as peaceable as pie, waiting for the horse to come back."
"Heavens, Dashwood," said French, "inside this hour, I'll be either a rich man or broke to the world, and I feel just as cool as if I hadn't a penny on the race. Funny, that, isn't it?"
"Not a bit," said Bobby. "I always feel that way myself when it comes to the scratch. By Jove, there's Garryowen, and isn't he looking fit!"
"Don't let us go near him," said French. "We've got him here, but I feel if I go near him my bad luck may stick on him. Come into the ring."
He led the way to the ring, followed by Dashwood. Lawson was just leaving the ring. "It's twenty-five to one against Garryowen now," said he. "They've sniffed him, and, begad, I wouldn't wonder if he started ten to one. You can't grumble, French; you're having a run for your money. Sixty-five to one you told me you got on at. I've just put seven hundred on at twenty-five, so that's my opinion of Garryowen. Now stick here and don't bother. I'm going to have a word with your trainer. Leave everything to me and him, and stick here; but don't put any more on, you mustn't pull down your average."
"Right," said French, and Lawson left him.
"I haven't any average to pull down," said Mr. Dashwood. "Haven't a penny on; but I captured twenty pounds yesterday, and here goes."
He approached Sam Collins, a bookmaker beknown to him, and, lo and behold! Garryowen's price was now fifteen to one, and at that he put his twenty pounds on.