Still, we won't quarrel;
you've done me a mighty good turn, that I must say, and I only feel I
aren't level without doing something to pay the debt. Come, now, you've
got your trade as I've got mine. Let me have the bill, and I'll pay it
like a lord, and feel a deal more pleased than if you made a favor of
it--not that I'm above a favor, of course. But I'd prefer paying, and
that's a fact."
"My dear sir, you have paid," Hewitt said, with a smile. "You paid in
advance. It was a bargain, wasn't it, that I should do your business if
you would help me in mine? Very well; a bargain's a bargain, and we've
both performed our parts. And you mustn't be offended at what I said just
now."
"That I won't! But as to that Raggy Steggles, once those heats are over
to-morrow, I'll--well----"
It was on the following Sunday week that Martin Hewitt, in his rooms in
London, turned over his paper and read, under the head "Padfield Annual
135 Yards Handicap," this announcement: "Final heat: Crockett, first;
Willis, second; Trewby, third; Owen, 0; Howell, 0. A runaway win by nearly
three yards.
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