Stack listened with attention, and thus encouraged, Journeyman proceeded to point out certain distributions of weight which he said seemed to him difficult to beat. "Anyone what knows the running would say there wasn't a pin to choose between them at the weights. If this was the real 'andicap, I'd bet drinks all around that fifteen of these twenty would accept. And that's more than anyone will be able to say for Courtney's 'andicap. The weights will be out to-morrow; we shall see." "What do you say to 'alf a pint," said Stack, "and we'll go steadily through your 'andicap? You've nothing to do for the next 'alf-hour." Journeyman's dingy face lit up. When the potboy appeared in answer to the bell he was told to bring up two half-pints, and Journeyman read out the weights. Every now and then he stopped to explain his reasons for what might seem to be superficial, an unmerited severity, or an undue leniency. It was not usual for Journeyman to meet with so sympathetic a listener; he had often been made to feel that his handicapping was unnecessary, and he now noticed, and with much pleasure, that Stack's attention seemed to increase rather than to diminish as he approached the end. When he had finished Stack said, "I see you've given six-seven to Ben Jonson. Tell me why you did that?" "He was a good 'orse once; he's broken down and aged; he can't be trained, so six-seven seems just the kind of weight to throw him in at. You couldn't give him less, however old and broken down he may be. He was a good horse when he won the Great Ebor Grand Cup." "Do you think if they brought him to the post as fit and well as he was the day he won the Ebor that he'd win?" "What, fit and well as he was when he won the Great Ebor, and with six-seven on his back? He'd walk away with it." "You don't think any of the three-year-olds would have a chance with him? A Derby winner with seven stone on his back might beat him." "Yes, but nothing short of that. Even then old Ben would make a race of it. A nailing good horse once. A little brown horse about fifteen two, as compact as a leg of Welsh mutton.... But there's no use in thinking of him. They've been trying for years to train him. Didn't they used to get the flesh off him in a Turkish bath? That was Fulton's notion. He used to say that it didn't matter 'ow you got the flesh off so long as you got it off. Every pound of flesh off the lungs is so much wind, he used to say. But the Turkish bath trained horses came to the post limp as old rags. If a 'orse 'asn't the legs you can't train him. Every pound of flesh yer take off must put a pound 'o 'ealth on. They'll do no good with old Ben, unless they've found out a way of growing on him a pair of new forelegs. The old ones won't do for my money." "But do you think that Courtney will take the same view of his capabilities as you do--do you think he'll let him off as easily as you have?"