Next day they walked into Shoreham together. The bar of the "Red Lion" was
full of people. Above the thronging crowd the voice of the barman and the
customers were heard calling, "Two glasses of Burton, glass of bitter,
three of whiskey cold." There were railway porters, sailors, boatmen,
shop-boys, and market gardeners. They had all won something, and had come
for their winnings.
Old Watkins, an elderly man with white whiskers and a curving stomach, had
just run in to wet his whistle. He walked back to his office with Mr.
Leopold and William, a little corner shelved out of some out-houses, into
which you could walk from the street.
"Talk of favourites!" he said; "I'd sooner pay over the three first
favourites than this one--thirty, twenty to one starting price, and the
whole town onto him; it's enough to break any man.... Now, my men, what is
it?" he said, turning to the railway porters.
"Just the trifle me and my mates 'av won over that 'ere 'orse."
"What was it?"
"A shilling at five and twenty to one."
"Look it out, Joey. Is it all right?"
"Yes, sir; yes, sir," said the clerk.
And old Watkins slid his hand into his breeches pocket, and it came forth
filled with gold and silver.
"Come, come, mates, we are bound to 'ave a bet on him for the
Chesterfield--we can afford it now; what say yer, a shilling each?"
"Done for a shilling each," said the under-porter; "finest 'orse in
training.
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