“Nowell is it, Blaisdell’s crack jock, ye are askin’ about, now, father?” inquired the man, with an expression of mild surprise. Evidently he mistook the bishop for a priest.
“Yes. Somebody said—I understood he was to ride in the Derby to-day,” continued the bishop, anxiously.
“I see ye ain’t used to racin’ at all, at all, now, father,” laughed the man, good-humoredly. “If ye were, sir, ye would have seen his name on the official jockey board over beyant. Do ye see it now, father? The numbers have been up so long they’ll be takin’ them down shortly. Over beyant, father.”
The bishop’s eyes followed the outstretched finger across the track to where he saw opposite “No. 1” on the board the name “Nowell” in large letters, with other numbers and names below it.
“Let me show ye, father,” said the man, taking the program and turning over the leaves rapidly.
“There ye are—foorth race, the Derby—No. 1, Ixion. That’s the horse Nowell rides. It’s No. 1 on the board, an’ I’m hopin’ he’ll be No. 1 at the finish.”
“Do you attend the races regularly?” asked the bishop, hesitatingly.
“That’s about the size av it, father,” acknowledged the other. “I’m what ye call a ‘regular.’ I don’t suppose annywan is known better about the tracks in this section than Miles Halloran. I play the ponies for a livin’. Mebbe ye’d be scoldin’ me, now, father?” he inquired, indulgently.
The question was ignored.
“Perhaps you can tell me about this jockey Nowell?” the bishop asked again. “Do you know him?”