“Not much,” answered his assailant, catching his breath; “there's a strong play on Langdon's horse, and if I didn't know my boy pretty well, and Lucretia better, I'd have weakened a bit. But she can't lose, she can't lose!” he repeated in the tone of a man who is reassuring himself.
Lewis battled his way along till he stood in front of a bookmaker with a face cast very much on the lines of a Rubens' cherub; but the cherub-type ended abruptly with the plump frontispiece of “Jakey” Faust, the bookmaker. Lewis knew that. “If there's anythin' doin', I'm up against it here,” he muttered to himself. “What's Lauzanne's price?” he asked, in an indifferent voice, for the bookmaker's assistant was busy changing the figures on his list.
Faust pretended not to hear him.
“Sure thing!” whispered Lewis to himself. Then aloud he repeated the question, touching the bookmaker on the elbow.
The Cherub smiled blandly. “Not takin' any,” he answered, nodding his head in the pleasant manner of a man who knows when he's got a good thing.
“What's Lucretia?” persisted Lewis.
“Oh! that's it, is it? I'll lay you two to one.”
The questioner edged away, shaking his head solemnly.
“Here! five to two—how much—” but Lewis was gone.
He burrowed like a mole most industriously, regardless of people's toes, their ribs, their dark looks, and even angry expressions of strong disapproval, and when he gained the green sward of the lawn, hurried to his friend's box.