“Little Nowell?” repeated the man. “I reckon not. Nobody knows him but Blaisdell and the horses. They say his own father don’t know him. But that don’t keep me from playin’ his mounts, father. I’ve been backin’ him ever since he started to ride. That’s why I’m all to the good. I don’t know him, but sure I can tell ye av him, an’ nothin’ but good. He’s as straight as a string.”
“Do you mean that he rides sitting straight up in the saddle?” inquired the bishop, misunderstanding.
“No, no, sir; not that. Sure, if all the boys were like him the bookies would go out of business, I’m thinkin’.”
“Bookies?” repeated the bishop. “Will you kindly elucidate what you mean by bookies?”
“Sure, the bookmakers.”
“Bookmakers—publishers, do I understand you to mean?” inquired the bishop, failing to see the connection between publishers and the race course.
“No, no, father; the layers what takes your long green, your dough, your yellow backs—the ones ye make your bet with, ye know.”
“Oh!” said the bishop.
“This little jock, Nowell, as I was sayin’,” continued Halloran, “is pounds better than any rider in the country.”
Once more the bishop failed to comprehend.