“I fancy Deerstalker,” he said; “he’s a hell of a horse.”
“Too much weight,” said the red-faced man. “What about this Calliope?”
“Ah!” said Pulcher. “D’you fancy your mare, Jimmy?”
With all eyes turned on him, lost in his blue box-cloth coat, brown bowler, and cheroot smoke, ‘Jimmy’ experienced a subtle thrill. Addressing the space between the red-faced man and Pulcher, he said:
“If she runs up to ’er looks.”
“Ah!” said Pulcher, “she’s dark—nice mare, but a bit light and shelly.”
“Lopez out o’ Calendar,” muttered the red-faced man. “Lopez didn’t stay, but he was the hell of a horse over seven furlongs. The Shirker ought to ’ave told you a bit.”
‘Jimmy’ did not answer. It gave him pleasure to see the red-faced man’s eye trying to get past, and failing.
“Nice race to pick up. Don’t fancy the favourite meself; he’d nothin’ to beat at Ascot.”