The likelihood that a horse will bolt with one jockey and run straight with another was argued passionately, and illustrated with interesting reminiscences drawn from that remote past when Mr. Leopold was the Gaffer's private servant--before either of them had married--when life was composed entirely of horse-racing and prize-fighting. But cutting short his tale of how he had met one day the Birmingham Chicken in a booth, and, not knowing who he was, had offered to fight him, Mr. Leopold confessed he did not know how to act--he had a bet of fifty pounds to ten shillings for the double event; should he stand it out or lay some of it off? William thrilled with admiration. What a 'ead, and who'd think it? that little 'ead, hardly bigger than a cocoanut! What a brain there was inside! Fifty pounds to ten shillings; should he stand it out or hedge some of it? Who could tell better than Mr. Leopold? It would, of course, be a pity to break into the fifty. What did ten shillings matter? Mr. Leopold was a big enough man to stand the racket of it even if it didn't come back. William felt very proud of being consulted, for Mr. Leopold had never before been known to let anyone know what he had on a race. 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.... What price, Musser Watkins?" "Ten to one." "Right, 'ere's my bob." The other porters gave their shillings; Watkins slid them back into his pocket, and called to Joey to book the bet. "And, now, what is yours, Mr. Latch?"