There was a well-known butcher in our neighbourhood, a great character, and a regular frequenter of race meetings. He had had a wager with a bookmaker
named Kelly, and the horse winning had drawn £200 from the bookmaker. Kelly had reminded him at the time that the bet was not a ready-money bet, but the butcher said he wanted the money, and, the two being friends, had got it. An objection was afterwards lodged and the winner was disqualified. Then Kelly wanted his money back. The butcher declared the bet was “first past the post,” which it certainly was not, and Kelly brought his action. The case was brought to me to settle the defence. Of course, to plead the Gaming Act was to win the case, and that was done. At the assizes McCall was briefed to lead me, and the butcher came to a consultation and tried to persuade McCall to put him in the witness-box and let him tell his story about the bet. McCall, with his best and most rasping north of Ireland accent, told his client in so many words what he thought of him and his story, and sent him away to reflect on some serious home truths. I met the butcher disconsolate in the corridor waiting for his case to come on. He stopped me, and, pulling an imaginary forelock in his simple bucolic way, said in a melancholy voice, “Mr. Porry, I thowt as ’ow you ’ad this ’ere case o’ mine in ’and.”
“So I have,” I said.
“Well, wot do we want wi’ this ’ere Macoll or Macaul or whatever yer call ’im. Wot’s ’e for?”
I explained that in important cases the idea was to have a leader, just as in the butchering business
you had a foreman. The butcher sniffed uneasily through my explanation.
“Well, Mr. Porry,” he said at the end of it, “would yer mind telling me one thing?”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Is this ’ere Macoll or Macaul an Irishman?”
“Yes, I should say he is,” I replied.