Meanwhile, sir, seeing we are both strangers in a strange
place, supposing we--join forces and, if you are up for the race, I
propose--"
"The race!" exclaimed Barnabas, looking up suddenly.
"Yes, sir, devilish swell affair, with gentlemen to ride, and
Royalty to look on--a race of races! London's agog with it, all the
clubs discuss it, coffee houses ring with it, inns and taverns
clamor with it--soul and honor, betting--everywhere. The odds
slightly favor Sir Mortimer Carnaby's 'Clasher'; but Viscount
Devenham's 'Moonraker' is well up. Then there's Captain Slingsby's
'Rascal,' Mr. Tressider's 'Pilot,' Lord Jerningham's 'Clinker,' and
five or six others. But, as I tell you, 'Clasher' and 'Moonraker'
carry the money, though many knowing ones are sweet on the 'Rascal.'
But, surely, you must have heard of the great steeplechase? Devilish
ugly course, they tell me."
"The Viscount spoke of it, I remember," said Barnabas, absently.
"Viscount, sir--not--Viscount Devenham?"
"Yes."
Here Mr. Smivvle whistled softly, took off the curly-brimmed hat,
looked at it, and put it on again at a more rakish angle than ever.
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