"I don't understand you, Platt. Highdrift is all right, and it is not more than 2 to 1 against him. He will very nearly, if not quite, win."
"But that's where we agree to differ. You do not see my drift—lowdrift, you can call it if you like. I have been taking liberties with your horse all along, and I'll be cremated if he is going to win."
"What the devil do you mean, man?" asked Moordown, getting rapidly into a passion, and rising hastily from his chair.
"Just what I say. It is a mutual benefit affair. You owe me £1,725, and cannot pay it; I agree to give you time. I have overlaid your horse; you oblige me by scratching him on account of an accident, or give me your word that if he runs he will not win."
"Scoundrel! take that," was Moordown's answer to these equitable proposals, as he drove his right between Billy's eyes.
When Billy recovered from his well-deserved punishment, and was able to regain his feet, he found Sir Hew Mainfly, the owner of Springtrap, the second favourite for the Silver Gauntlet, in his room.
"Well, Billy, anything wrong? You look dreadfully uncomfortable. Been taking a nap? You might have chosen a softer place than the floor. Hilloa! that's a nasty lump on your forehead. Who has been giving you a lesson in the noble art of self-defence?"
"Somebody who will very soon rue it. Who should it be but the owner of Highdrift, the great Mr. Moordown?"
"You don't mean to say he has been foolish enough to quarrel with you?"