“Ten-and-sixpence, please,” said the beaming baronet; “I’ve got Blazer.”
Mills laughed.
“You’re not in much of a hurry. Has Blazer won, then?”
“Yes; a rank outsider, too. Do you know, I tried all I knew to sell my ticket for threepence. Just fancy if I had.”
“It’s a pity you didn’t,” said Mills, taking a chair, “The fact is, there’s been a bit of a muddle about Blazer. That ass Simson, when he wrote out the tickets, wrote Blazer twice over instead of Blazer and Catterwaul. They were both such regular outsiders, it didn’t seem worth correcting it at the time. I’m awfully sorry, you know, but your’s—let’s see,” said he, taking the cadaverous baronet’s ticket and looking at it, “yours has got one of the corners torn off—yes, that’s it. Yours should be Catterwaul.”
Dig gasped, and tried to moisten his parched lips. It was a long time before the words came.
“It’s a swindle!” cried he, choking. “I’ve won it—I—I—give me the 10 shillings 6 pence.”
“Don’t make an ass of yourself,” said Mills. “I tell you you’ve got the wrong paper; isn’t that enough?”
“No, it’s not enough, you thief, you!” roared Dig, tossing his tawny mane. “Everybody said you were a blackleg—I know it’s all lies you’re telling, and I—I—I don’t care if you do lick me.”
As he didn’t care, of course it didn’t so much matter, but Mills cut short further argument by licking him and ejecting him neck and crop from the room.