"He can't give him much more.... The 'orse is bound to get in at seven stone, rather under than over." "I'm glad to 'ear yer say so, for I know you've a headpiece, and 'as all the running in there." Stack tapped his forehead. "Now, I'd like to ask you if there's any three-year-olds that would be likely to interfere with him?" "Derby and Leger winners will get from eight stone to eight stone ten, and three-year-olds ain't no good over the Cesarewitch course with more than eight on their backs." The conversation paused. Surprised at Stack's silence, Journeyman said-- "Is there anything up? Have you heard anything particular about old Ben?" Stack bent forward. "Yes, I've heard something, and I'm making inquiries." "How did you hear it?" Stack drew his chair a little closer. "I've been up at Chalk Farm, the 'Yarborough Arms'; you know, where the 'buses stop. Bob Barrett does a deal of business up there. He pays the landlord's rent for the use of the bar--Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays is his days. Charley Grove bets there Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, but it is Bob that does the biggest part of the business. They say he's taken as much as twenty pounds in a morning. You know Bob, a great big man, eighteen stun if he's an ounce. He's a warm 'un, can put it on thick." "I know him; he do tell fine stories about the girls; he has the pick of the neighbourhood, wears a low hat, no higher than that, with a big brim. I know him. I've heard that he 'as moved up that way. Used at one time to keep a tobacconist's shop in Great Portland Street." "That's him," said Stack. "I thought you'd heard of him." "There ain't many about that I've not heard of. Not that I likes the man much. There was a girl I knew--she wouldn't hear his name mentioned. But he lays fair prices, and does, I believe, a big trade." "'As a nice 'ome at Brixton, keeps a trap; his wife as pretty a woman as you could wish to lay eyes on. I've seen her with him at Kempton." "You was up there this morning?" "Yes." "It wasn't Bob Barrett that gave you the tip?" "Not likely." The men laughed, and then Stack said-- "You know Bill Evans? You've seen him here, always wore a blue Melton jacket and billycock hat; a dark, stout, good-looking fellow; generally had something to sell, or pawn-tickets that he would part with for a trifle." "Yes, I know the fellow. We met him down at Epsom one Derby Day. Sarah Tucker, a friend of the missis, was dead gone on him." "Yes, she went to live with him. There was a row, and now, I believe, they're together again; they was seen out walking. They're friends, anyhow. Bill has been away all the summer, tramping. A bad lot, but one of them sort often hears of a good thing." "So it was from Bill Evans that you heard it."