“Yourself,” said the jockey; and his mount choked coyly in her glass.
At this moment the King appeared, followed by Aristotle, Sir Thomas Beecham, and others.
“The next race is about to begin,” he said severely, “and you’ve none of you brushed your hair.”
It was a long time before I found the bookmaker. Any number of spurious ones rose up in my path and taunted me; but He always escaped. At last I thought of looking under one of the thimbles; and there he was in deep calculation.
“What price Poltergeist?” I demanded. I wanted to say Psychology, but the word somehow refused to shape itself.
“It all depends,” he replied shrewdly, “on whether you want to buy or to sell,” wherewith he crossed his legs, smiled on only one side of his face, and returned to his calculations.
“Aren’t you a bookmaker?” I faltered.
“Certainly,” he cried shrilly, “and I’m making a book now, can’t you see?” He held up a kind of primitive loose-leaf ledger, made of calico pages bound in sheepskin.
“Very durable,” he explained, and broke into a harsh chant: