Lacking a parlour on the ground floor for the use of special customers,
William had arranged a room upstairs where they could smoke and drink.
There were tables in front of the windows and chairs against the walls,
and in the middle of the room a bagatelle board.

When William left off going to race-courses he had intended to refrain from taking money across the bar and to do all his betting business in this room.

He thought that it would be safer. But as his customers multiplied he found that he could not ask them all upstairs; it attracted more attention than to take the money quietly across the bar. Nevertheless the room upstairs had proved a success. A man spent more money if he had a room where he could sit quietly among his friends than he would seated on a high stool in a public bar, jostled and pushed about; so it had come to be considered a sort of club room; and a large part of the neighbourhood came there to read the papers, to hear and discuss the news. And specially useful it had proved to Journeyman and Stack. Neither was now in employment; they were now professional backers; and from daylight to dark they wandered from public-house to public-house, from tobacconist to barber's shop, in the search of tips, on the quest of stable information regarding the health of the horses and their trials. But the room upstairs at the "King's Head" was the centre of their operations. Stack was the indefatigable tipster, Journeyman was the scientific student of public form. His memory was prodigious, and it enabled him to note an advantage in the weights which would escape an ordinary observer. He often picked out horses which, if they did not actually win, nearly always stood at a short price in the betting before the race.

The "King's Head" was crowded during the dinner-hour. Barbers and their assistants, cabmen, scene-shifters, if there was an afternoon performance at the theatre, servants out of situation and servants escaped from their service for an hour, petty shopkeepers, the many who grow weary of the scant livelihood that work brings them, came there. Eleven o'clock! In another hour the bar and the room upstairs would be crowded. At present the room was empty, and Journeyman had taken advantage of the quiet time to do a bit of work at his handicap. All the racing of the last three years lay within his mind's range; he recalled at will every trifling selling race; hardly ever was he obliged to refer to the Racing Calendar. Wanderer had beaten Brick at ten pounds. Snow Queen had beaten Shoemaker at four pounds, and Shoemaker had beaten Wanderer at seven pounds. The problem was further complicated by the suspicion that Brick could get a distance of ground better than Snow Queen. Journeyman was undecided. He stroked his short brown moustache with his thin, hairy hand, and gnawed the end of his pen. In this moment of barren reflection Stack came into the room.

"Still at yer 'andicap, I see," said Stack. "How does it work out?"

"Pretty well," said Journeyman. "But I don't think it will be one of my best; there is some pretty hard nuts to crack."

"Which are they?" said Stack. Journeyman brightened up, and he proceeded to lay before Stack's intelligence what he termed a "knotty point in collateral running."

Stack listened with attention, and thus encouraged, Journeyman proceeded to point out certain distributions of weight which he said seemed to him difficult to beat.

"Anyone what knows the running would say there wasn't a pin to choose between them at the weights. If this was the real 'andicap, I'd bet drinks all around that fifteen of these twenty would accept. And that's more than anyone will be able to say for Courtney's 'andicap. The weights will be out to-morrow; we shall see."

"What do you say to 'alf a pint," said Stack, "and we'll go steadily through your 'andicap? You've nothing to do for the next 'alf-hour."

Journeyman's dingy face lit up. When the potboy appeared in answer to the bell he was told to bring up two half-pints, and Journeyman read out the weights. Every now and then he stopped to explain his reasons for what might seem to be superficial, an unmerited severity, or an undue leniency. It was not usual for Journeyman to meet with so sympathetic a listener; he had often been made to feel that his handicapping was unnecessary, and he now noticed, and with much pleasure, that Stack's attention seemed to increase rather than to diminish as he approached the end. When he had finished Stack said, "I see you've given six-seven to Ben Jonson. Tell me why you did that?"

"He was a good 'orse once; he's broken down and aged; he can't be trained, so six-seven seems just the kind of weight to throw him in at. You couldn't give him less, however old and broken down he may be. He was a good horse when he won the Great Ebor Grand Cup."

"Do you think if they brought him to the post as fit and well as he was the day he won the Ebor that he'd win?"

"What, fit and well as he was when he won the Great Ebor, and with six-seven on his back? He'd walk away with it."

"You don't think any of the three-year-olds would have a chance with him?
A Derby winner with seven stone on his back might beat him."

"Yes, but nothing short of that. Even then old Ben would make a race of it. A nailing good horse once. A little brown horse about fifteen two, as compact as a leg of Welsh mutton…. But there's no use in thinking of him. They've been trying for years to train him. Didn't they used to get the flesh off him in a Turkish bath? That was Fulton's notion. He used to say that it didn't matter 'ow you got the flesh off so long as you got it off. Every pound of flesh off the lungs is so much wind, he used to say. But the Turkish bath trained horses came to the post limp as old rags. If a 'orse 'asn't the legs you can't train him. Every pound of flesh yer take off must put a pound 'o 'ealth on. They'll do no good with old Ben, unless they've found out a way of growing on him a pair of new forelegs. The old ones won't do for my money."

"But do you think that Courtney will take the same view of his capabilities as you do—do you think he'll let him off as easily as you have?"

"He can't give him much more…. The 'orse is bound to get in at seven stone, rather under than over."

"I'm glad to 'ear yer say so, for I know you've a headpiece, and 'as all the running in there." Stack tapped his forehead. "Now, I'd like to ask you if there's any three-year-olds that would be likely to interfere with him?"

"Derby and Leger winners will get from eight stone to eight stone ten, and three-year-olds ain't no good over the Cesarewitch course with more than eight on their backs."

The conversation paused. Surprised at Stack's silence, Journeyman said—

"Is there anything up? Have you heard anything particular about old Ben?"

Stack bent forward. "Yes, I've heard something, and I'm making inquiries."

"How did you hear it?"

Stack drew his chair a little closer. "I've been up at Chalk Farm, the 'Yarborough Arms'; you know, where the 'buses stop. Bob Barrett does a deal of business up there. He pays the landlord's rent for the use of the bar—Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays is his days. Charley Grove bets there Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, but it is Bob that does the biggest part of the business. They say he's taken as much as twenty pounds in a morning. You know Bob, a great big man, eighteen stun if he's an ounce. He's a warm 'un, can put it on thick."

"I know him; he do tell fine stories about the girls; he has the pick of the neighbourhood, wears a low hat, no higher than that, with a big brim. I know him. I've heard that he 'as moved up that way. Used at one time to keep a tobacconist's shop in Great Portland Street."

"That's him," said Stack. "I thought you'd heard of him."

"There ain't many about that I've not heard of. Not that I likes the man much. There was a girl I knew—she wouldn't hear his name mentioned. But he lays fair prices, and does, I believe, a big trade."

"'As a nice 'ome at Brixton, keeps a trap; his wife as pretty a woman as you could wish to lay eyes on. I've seen her with him at Kempton."

"You was up there this morning?"

"Yes."

"It wasn't Bob Barrett that gave you the tip?"

"Not likely." The men laughed, and then Stack said—

"You know Bill Evans? You've seen him here, always wore a blue Melton jacket and billycock hat; a dark, stout, good-looking fellow; generally had something to sell, or pawn-tickets that he would part with for a trifle."

"Yes, I know the fellow. We met him down at Epsom one Derby Day. Sarah
Tucker, a friend of the missis, was dead gone on him."

"Yes, she went to live with him. There was a row, and now, I believe, they're together again; they was seen out walking. They're friends, anyhow. Bill has been away all the summer, tramping. A bad lot, but one of them sort often hears of a good thing."

"So it was from Bill Evans that you heard it."

"Yes, it was from Bill. He has just come up from Eastbourne, where he 'as been about on the Downs a great deal. I don't know if it was the horses he was after, but in the course of his proceedings he heard from a shepherd that Ben Jonson was doing seven hours' walking exercise a day. This seemed to have fetched Bill a bit. Seven hours a day walking exercise do seem a bit odd, and being at the same time after one of the servants in the training stable—as pretty a bit of goods as he ever set eyes on, so Bill says—he thought he'd make an inquiry or two about all this walking exercise. One of the lads in the stable is after the girl, too, so Bill found out very soon all he wanted to know. As you says, the 'orse is dicky on 'is forelegs, that is the reason of all the walking exercise."

"And they thinks they can bring him fit to the post and win the
Cesarewitch with him by walking him all day?"

"I don't say they don't gallop him at all; they do gallop him, but not as much as if his legs was all right."

"That won't do. I don't believe in a 'orse winning the Cesarewitch that ain't got four sound legs, and old Ben ain't got more than two."

"He's had a long rest, and they say he is sounder than ever he was since he won the Great Ebor. They don't say he'd stand no galloping, but they don't want to gallop him more than's absolutely necessary on account of the suspensory ligament; it ain't the back sinew, but the suspensory ligament. Their theory is this, that it don't so much matter about bringing him quite fit to the post, for he's sure to stay the course; he'd do that three times over. What they say is this, that if he gets in with seven stone, and we brings him well and three parts trained, there ain't no 'orse in England that can stand up before him. They've got another in the race, Laurel Leaf, to make the running for him; it can't be too strong for old Ben. You say to yourself that he may get let off with six-seven. If he do there'll be tons of money on him. He'll be backed at the post at five to one. Before the weights come out they'll lay a hundred to one on the field in any of the big clubs. I wouldn't mind putting a quid on him if you'll join me."

"Better wait until the weights come out," said Journeyman, "for if it happened to come to Courtney's ears that old Ben could be trained he'd clap seven-ten on him without a moment's hesitation."

"You think so?" said Stack.

"I do," said Journeyman.

"But you agree with me that if he got let off with anything less than seven stone, and be brought fit, or thereabouts, to the post, that the race is a moral certainty for him?"

"A thousand to a brass farthing."

"Mind, not a word."

"Is it likely?"

The conversation paused a moment, and Journeyman said, "You've not seen my 'andicap for the Cambridgeshire. I wonder what you'd think of that?" Stack said he would be glad to see it another time, and suggested that they go downstairs.

"I'm afraid the police is in," said Stack, when he opened the door.

"Then we'd better stop where we are; I don't want to be took to the station."

They listened for some moments, holding the door ajar.

"It ain't the police," said Stack, "but a row about some bet. Latch had better be careful."

The cause of the uproar was a tall young English workman, whose beard was pale gold, and whose teeth were white. He wore a rough handkerchief tied round his handsome throat. His eyes were glassy with drink, and his comrades strove to quieten him.

"Leave me alone," he exclaimed; "the bet was ten half-crowns to one. I won't stand being welshed."

William's face flushed up. "Welshed!" he said. "No one speaks in this bar of welshing." He would have sprung over the counter, but Esther held him back.

"I know what I'm talking about; you let me alone," said the young workman, and he struggled out of the hands of his friends. "The bet was ten half-crowns to one."

"Don't mind what he says, guv'nor."

"Don't mind what I says!" For a moment it seemed as if the friends were about to come to blows, but the young man's perceptions suddenly clouded, and he said, "In this blo-ody bar last Monday… horse backed in Tattersall's at twelve to one taken and offered."

"He don't know what he's talking about; but no one must accuse me of welshing in this 'ere bar."

"No offence, guv'nor; mistakes will occur."

William could not help laughing, and he sent Teddy upstairs for Monday's paper. He pointed out that eight to one was being asked for about the horse on Monday afternoon at Tattersall's. The stage door-keeper and a scene-shifter had just come over from the theatre, and had managed to force their way into the jug and bottle entrance. Esther and Charles had been selling beer and spirits as fast as they could draw it, but the disputed bet had caused the company to forget their glasses.

"Just one more drink," said the young man. "Take the ten half-crowns out in drinks, guv'nor, that's good enough. What do you say, guv'nor?"

"What, ten half-crowns?" William answered angrily. "Haven't I shown you that the 'orse was backed at Tattersall's the day you made the bet at eight to one?"

"Ten to one, guv'nor."

"I've not time to go on talking…. You're interfering with my business.
You must get out of my bar."

"Who'll put me out?"

"Charles, go and fetch a policeman."

At the word "policeman" the young man seemed to recover his wits somewhat, and he answered, "You'll bring in no bloody policeman. Fetch a policeman! and what about your blooming betting—what will become of it?" William looked round to see if there was any in the bar whom he could not trust. He knew everyone present, and believed he could trust them all. There was but one thing to do, and that was to put on a bold face and trust to luck. "Now out you go," he said, springing over the counter, "and never you set your face inside my bar again." Charles followed the guv'nor over the counter like lightning, and the drunkard was forced into the street. "He don't mean no 'arm," said one of the friends; "he'll come round to-morrow and apologise for what he's said."

"I don't want his apology," said William. "No one shall call me a welsher in my bar…. Take your friend away, and never let me see him in my bar again."

Suddenly William turned very pale. He was seized with a fit of coughing, and this great strong man leaned over the counter very weak indeed. Esther led him into the parlour, leaving Charles to attend to the customers. His hand trembled like a leaf, and she sat by his side holding it. Mr. Blamy came in to ask if he should lay one of the young gentlemen from the tutor's thirty shillings to ten against the favourite. Esther said that William could attend to no more customers that day. Mr. Blamy returned ten minutes after to say that there was quite a number of people in the bar; should he refuse to take their money?

"Do you know them all?" said William.

"I think so, guv'nor."

"Be careful to bet with no one you don't know; but I'm so bad I can hardly speak."

"Much better send them away," said Esther.

"Then they'll go somewhere else."

"It won't matter; they'll come back to where they're sure of their money."

"I'm not so sure of that," William answered, feebly. "I think it will be all right, Teddy; you'll be very careful."

"Yes, guv'nor, I'll keep down the price."