Of course you know all about the Padfield 135
Yards Handicap being run off now?"
"Well, I haven't looked into it much," Hewitt replied. "Ran the first
round of heats last Saturday and Monday, didn't they?"
"They did. Well"--Kentish spoke in a stage whisper as he leaned over and
rapped the table--"I've got the final winner in this house." He nodded his
head, took a puff at his cigar, and added, in his ordinary voice. "Don't
say nothing."
"No, of course not. Got something on, of course?"
"Rather! What do you think? Got any price I liked. Been saving him up for
this. Why, he's got twenty-one yards, and he can do even time all the way!
Fact! Why, he could win runnin' back'ards. He won his heat on Monday
like--like--like that!" The gaffer snapped his fingers, in default of a
better illustration, and went on. "He might ha' took it a little easier,
_I_ think; it's shortened his price, of course, him jumpin' in by two
yards. But you can get decent odds now, if you go about it right. You take
my tip--back him for his heat next Saturday, in the second round, and for
the final.
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