Spargo drew out an envelope, and took from it the carefully-wrapped-up silver ticket. He took off the wrappings and laid the ticket on Crowfoot’s outstretched palm.
“Can you tell me what that is?” he asked.
Another sudden flash came into the old sportsman’s eyes—he eagerly turned the silver ticket over.
“God bless my soul!” he exclaimed. “Where did you get this?”
“Never mind, just now,” replied Spargo. “You know what it is?”
“Certainly I know what it is! But—Gad! I’ve not seen one of these things for Lord knows how many years. It makes me feel something like a young ’un again!” said Crowfoot. “Quite a young ’un!”
“But what is it?” asked Spargo.
Crowfoot turned the ticket over, showing the side on which the heraldic device was almost worn away.
“It’s one of the original silver stand tickets of the old racecourse at Market Milcaster,” answered Crowfoot. “That’s what it is. One of the old original silver stand tickets. There are the arms of Market Milcaster, you see, nearly worn away by much rubbing. There, on the obverse, is the figure of a running horse. Oh, yes, that’s what it is! Bless me!—most interesting.”
“Where’s Market Milcaster?” enquired Spargo. “Don’t know it.”