It was a morning that tempted to the road, but both men had risen early, and a pint of bitter seemed to be an almost indispensable preliminary. From Bristol to Bath is no distance to speak of, so a slight dallying over the beer led to an exchange of recent news.
Dale, it will be remembered, was of sporting bent, and he told Simmonds gleefully of his successful bet at Epsom.
“Five golden quidlets his lordship shoved into me fist at Brighton,” he chortled. “Have you met Smith, who is lookin’ after the Frenchman’s Du Vallon? No? Well, he was there, an’ his goggles nearly cracked when he sawr the money paid—two points over the market price, an’ all.”
“Sometimes one spots a winner by chanst,” observed Simmonds judicially. “An’ that reminds me. Last night a fella tole me there was a good thing at Kempton to-day.... Now, what was it?”
Dale instantly became a lexicon of weird-sounding words, for the British turf is exceedingly democratic in its pronunciation of the classical and foreign names frequently given to racehorses. His stock of racing lore was eked out by reference to a local paper; still Simmonds scratched an uncertain pate.
“Pity, too!” he said at last. “This chap had it from his nevvy, who married the sister of a housemaid at Beckhampton.”
Dale whistled. Here was news, indeed. Beckhampton! the home of “good things.”
“Is that where it comes from?”
“Yes. Something real hot over a mile.”
“Can’t you think? Let’s look again at the entries.”