One of his young Oxford sparks was jammed against him on the stairway!
He raised his lip in a sort of snarl, and, huddling himself, slipped through and up ahead. He came out and edged in close to the stairs where he could get play for his glasses. Behind him one of those who improve the shining hour among backers cut off from opportunity was intoning the odds a point shorter than below. “Three to one on the field!” “Fives Deerstalker!” “Eight to one Wasp!”
“What price Calliope?” said ‘Jimmy’ sharply.
“Hundred to eight.”
“Done!” Handing him the eight, he took the ticket. Behind him the man’s eyes moved fishily, and he resumed his incantation.
“Three to one on the field!... Three to one on the field! Six to one Magistrate!”
On the wheeling bunch of colours at the start ‘Jimmy’ trained his glasses. Something had broken clean away and come half the course—something in yellow.
“Eights Magistrate. Nine to one Magistrate,” drifted up.
So they had spotted that! Precious little they didn’t spot!