“No, at Ostend.”
The man’s hopes of obtaining good “information” diminished, but he was supremely interested.
“Wot a price!” he exclaimed. “Did you have much on, sir?”
“Forty pounds.”
“Forty pounds! Then you’ve won sixteen hundred quid!” and each syllable was a crescendo of admiration.
Warden threw the telegram on the floor. Though the last twenty–four hours had enriched him by nearly five years’ pay, he was in no mood to greet his good fortune as it deserved.
“Yes,” he sighed, “I suppose you are right. Unpack my traps, there’s a good fellow. I am going out, and I want to change my clothes.”
The hall porter obeyed, but he would have choked if speech were forbidden. He wanted to know the horse’s name, how the gentleman had come to hear of him, was the money “safe,” and other kindred items that goaded Warden to hidden frenzy. Yet the forced attention thus demanded was good for him. He described “Black Mask” as “a Tartar of the Ukraine breed,” and drew such a darksome picture of the precautions taken by the “stable” to conceal the animal’s true form that the man regarded him as a veritable fount of racing lore.
Such a reputation, once earned, is not easily shaken off. When he went out, the hall porter and the driver of a hansom were in deep converse. He paid the cabman at the Colonial Office, and his mind was busy with other things when he was brought back to earth again.
“Beg pardon, sir,” said cabby, “but would you mind tellin’ me the best thing for the Cup.”