"Do you say that people actually betted on the match—an amateur game between rival schools?" he asked. "It's preposterous—incredible!"
"Look here, sonny, how old are you—where were you brought up? You're either younger than you look, or grass-green for your age. What good's a football match—any sort of match, boxing, cricket, whatever you like—if people can't have a little bet on it? Tripe—ditchwater!"
Dick flushed with annoyance. "The cup final was pure sport," he declared. "To bet on it was positively vile. If you were encouraging people to do so, you ought to have been warned off the ground."
The bookie laughed harshly at this straight hit. "Oh, I wasn't there in person, sonny—what I know of the game was from hearsay. But if you didn't have a little gamble on it yourself, there are other Foxenby chaps who did."
"It's a lie!" Dick hotly denied. "There isn't a fellow in Foxenby who would be skunk enough to play it so low down."
"All serene, young feller—keep your hair on. I know what I know, but we'll not talk about it, as I never betray a client. Anyhow, if that young Foxenby chap had scored, there'd have been a five-pound note in the school letter-box for him next day. Just a friendly memento, so to speak, and no questions asked."
"And straight to the police-station it would have gone, too," was Dick's indignant comment. "If you try buying over a 'Fox' to your dirty betting business, you'll find yourself in Queer Street, whoever you are."
The bookie gazed across at him with serenely-smiling eyes. "What ho!" he cried. "When I see shells, I guess eggs. So you were the Foxenby centre-forward that day, eh? Well, youngster, I like spirit. Slang me back-and-edge, call me dud names, tear my honest business to tatters, but accept my congratulations as a sportsman on the clinking game you played that day. My pals still talk about it."
Now Dick was no snob, and too genuinely boyish not to appreciate a word of praise, from whatever quarter it came. Besides, he realized that the man was to be his travelling companion for the remainder of the journey, and that no discouragement could silence him. So, while saying as little as possible himself, he let the bookmaker run on, and at last found himself being entertained, in spite of his prejudice, by the man's racy reminiscences of famous sporting events of the past-great boxing contests between world champions, doughty wrestling matches in the Westmorland hills, exciting International games won "dead on time", all mingled with less savoury stories of the shady side of sport, where combatants were kidnapped, drugged, or bribed to lose, so that huge sums of money might go dishonestly into the pockets of the betting-ring.
The man was a born story-teller, and his determination to be friendly was such that he insisted on sharing with Dick the contents of a very excellent luncheon-basket. This the Captain frankly enjoyed, and said so.