"I expect you know it all; you're never much behind the times where your interests are concerned. By Gad, perhaps you don't know; it only happened this morning. When did you arrive?"
"I've just come in by the express. What's up?"
"Your horse, Barellan."
"Well?"
"He went lame on the track at Flemington this morning, limped away badly, and it's the week before the race. He'll not have much time to pull round. I'm sorry for you. It's deuced bad luck, but you can stand it. I'm more sorry for that chap, Glen Leigh, who drew him in the sweep. It's rough on him. I like him; he's the best roughrider I ever saw. I'm open to bet there isn't a bucker in Australia can get rid of him in a quarter of an hour. I told him I'd bet a level thousand, two thousand if anybody wanted it, and give him half if he won," said Nick.
"My horse lame!" exclaimed Bellshaw, ignoring the latter part of Nick's remarks.
"Dead lame, from all accounts. I didn't see him, but I met Luke Nicholl in Bourke Street, and he told me. He was on his back, so he ought to know," said the bookmaker.
"Damn him! He'd no right to say anything about it, especially to a bookmaker," cried Bellshaw angrily.
"And pray why not? What have I done? The fact will be in all the evening papers. Most men I met at the Club were talking about it."
"Were they? It's a den of thieves," almost shouted Bellshaw, in his anger.