The evening began to wear on, and the bar to fill with an ever-increasing crowd. The drinks were called for more and more frequently, and a mingled buzz of conversation and cigar smoke filled the air. The one subject of conversation was to-morrow’s Cup, and the merits of the competing horses. The name of Revolver was in every mouth, bookmakers and backers. A few spoke of Bertha, and a voice here and there championed an outsider; but the vast majority of the public had gone solid for Revolver. In the words of one, “He was a moral,” and his performances were counted up, what he had done, what he had beaten; and if public form was to be relied on, then without doubt Revolver was one of the best of good things.
Books and pencils came out, and wagers were booked, and all the time drinks, plenty of drinks, and the toast was ever the same, “To Revolver, good luck to him.”
If whisky-laden prayer is attended to by the geni that presides over sport, and the incense of tobacco is grateful to him, then the hopes of to-morrow were assured.
As time went on, a species of delirium possessed this crowd. From talking they had got to shouting; from modest doubt of assertion to positive assurance. Some were florid and blatant, others jolly and hilarious, and when news arrived from the stable, Revolver’s stable, of course, that all was well, a perfect roar of satisfaction went up.
The news necessitated more drinks, and still more, the cigars were now puffed by many a happy smoker, oblivious of their being unlit, and all this time the weary barmaids served and smiled, served and smiled, with a smile so automatic it might have been worked by a string.
The hero of the hour, next to Revolver, was his owner, known to Ruby and Florrie as the “Squatter.” He was in strong evidence in the bar to-night. Many the questions he answered, many the drinks he shouted, and it was always champagne, or so the bottle was labelled, and the sparkling liquid flowed down many a brazen throat in a vain effort to quench the unappeasable drought.
Alec Booth was there, beaming with hope and assurance, the centre of a little coterie that listened with silent contempt to his confident prediction of Bertha’s winning. But they found their tongues when he offered to “shout,” and assured him that if any man knew a horse he was the man.
“A real sportsman, and no mistake.”
Amidst this excitement there was one man who said little or nothing, but watched from the corner of the room all that was going forward with a derisive smile on his face, Huey Gosper.
“What fools!” he seemed to be saying to himself, “to talk of public form, of private trials, and all that kind of rubbish, as though that had anything to do with who was going to win! Why, if merit counted in horse-racing, how could a smart man live?”