Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (142 page)

But
whatever
the
explanation,
Knocker
was
satisfied
it
was
not a
fake.
The
old
chap
had
not
asked
for
any
money;
indeed,
he
had not
even
taken
the
half-crown
that
Knocker
had
offered
him.
And
as

Knocker
knew,
you
always
collected
the
dibs—or
attempted
to—if
you were
running
a
fake.

He
thought
pleasantly
of
what
he
would
do
in
the
ring
at
Gatwick the
following
day.
He
was
in
rather
low
water,
but
he
could
put
his hands
on
just
about
enough
to
make
the
bookies
sit
up.
And
with
a second
winner
at
a
100
to
8!

He
had
still
another
drink
and
stood
the
barman
one
too.

"D'you
know
anything
for
to-morrow?"
The
man
behind
the
bar knew
Thompson
quite
well
by
sight
and
reputation.

Knocker
hesitated.

"Yes,"
he
said.
"Sure
thing.
Salmon
House
in
the
second
race. Price'll
be
a
bit
short,
but
it's
a
snip."

"Thanks
very
much;
I'll
have
a
bit
on
meself."

Ultimately
he
left
the
saloon
bar.
He
was
a
little
shaky;
his
doctor had
warned
him
not
to
drink,
but
surely
on
such
a
night
.
.
.

The
following
morning
he
went
to
Gatwick.
It
was
a
meeting
he liked,
and
usually
he
was
very
lucky
there.
But
that
day
it
was
not merely
a
question
of
luck.
There
was
a
streak
of
caution
in
his
bets on
the
first
race,
but
he
flung
caution
to
the
wind
after
Inkerman
had come
in
a
comfortable
winner—and
at
6
to
1
.
The
horse
and
the
price! He
had
no
doubts
left.
Salmon
House
won
the
second,
a
hot
favourite at
7
to
4
on.

In
the
big
race
most
of
the
punters
left
Shallot
alone.
The
horse had
little
form,
and
there
was
no
racing
reason
why
anyone
should back
him.
He
was
among
what
the
bookies
call
"the
Rags."
But Knocker
cared
nothing
for
"form"
that
day.
He
spread
his
money judiciously.
Twenty
here,
twenty
there.
Not
until
ten
minutes
before the
race
did
he
wire
any
money
to
the
West
End
offices,
but
some
of the
biggest
men
in
the
game
opened
their
eyes
when
his
wires
came through.
He
was
out
to
win
a
fortune.
And
he
won.

As
the
horses
entered
the
straight
one
of
them
was
lengths
ahead of
the
field.
It
carried
the
flashing
yellow
and
blue
of
Shallot's
owner. The
groan
that
went
up
from
the
punters
around
him
was
satisfactory,
but
there
was
no
thrill
in
the
race
for
him;
he
had
been
certain that
Shallot
would
win.
There
was
no
objection
.
.
.
and
he
proceeded
to
collect.

His
pockets
were
bulging
with
notes,
but
his
winnings
were
as nothing
compared
with
the
harvest
he
would
reap
from
the
big
men in
the
West
End.
He
ordered
a
bottle
of
champagne,
and
with
a silent
grin
drank
the
health
of
the
old
man
with
the
beard
before
he sent
for
the
taxi
that
would
take
him
back
to
the
station.
There
was no
train
for
half-an-hour,
and,
when
at
last
it
started,
his
carriage
had filled
with
racing
men,
among
whom
were
several
he
knew.
The
wiser race-goers
rarely
wait
until
the
end
of
a
meeting.