Mr Peter Punditt nipped out of his little newsagent’s and tobacconist’s shop in West India Dock Road, carrying in his hand a large, damp sheet, smelling strongly of the press. This he carefully pasted over a demurely complacent contents bill of _The Telegraph_, and then stepped back to look at it in the grey incertitude of the Limehouse twilight. It read: PUNDITT’S ONE-HORSE SNIP _One Penny Daily_ Is Away from Everything Who Gave PAINTED LADY GOLD CUP? It was to be noted that Mr Punditt, from motives of modesty or wariness, refrained from throwing any light on his part in this dubious transaction. With cocked head and silently whistling lips he contemplated his work, recognising, with some satisfaction, how much more arresting was his bill than that of _Gale’s Monday Night Special_, by whose side it stood. He was just about to nip in again, when he heard a weak, erratic step behind him, and, turning, beheld a youth of about twenty, with sallow, pimply face, slack-mouthed and furtive. An unlit Woodbine dropped from his lips. Little Peter Punditt, the smartest bookie in Limehouse, Poplar and Blackwall, turned swiftly about. “Well?” “Er—look ’ere, Punditt, o’ man, I’m—I’m ’fraid I sha’n’t be able to manage anything. Y’see——” “Oh!” Punditt regarded the weed in front of him with an airy tolerance. “Oh! Yeh can’t manage anything, can’t yeh? Yer _afraid_, are yeh?... Look ’ere, that kind ’o talk is twos into one wiv me. See?” “Two’s into——” “Yerss. It won’t go. It’s Punditt what’s talking to yeh. Yeh know Punditt’s way wiv bilkers, doncher? Before I’ve finished wiv a bilker he’s wishing he’d collected stamps instead.” “Yes, but.... I mean ... I.... It was your tips what I followed. You let me down every time. Every time. You said this last was a cert., and I put me shirt on it, and——” “An’ if I did? Who th’ell arst yeh to back ’orses at all? Eh? Did I arst yeh to buy Punditt’s One-Horse Snip? Eh? Yeh lose yer money, then yeh come whinin’ rahnd ’ere wiv a face abaht as cheerful as cold boiled potatoes on a foggy night. Did I arst ye to put yer money on—eh?” His tone changed. “Look ’ere—don’t get gay wiv me, me boy. Cos gettin’ gay wiv me’s about as ’ealthy as monkeying wiv a buzz-saw. See? You just got to settle up. I gave y’an extra fortnight, and it’s up to-day. Lessee ... Monday, ain’t it? Tell yeh what I’ll do—an’ I don’t go as far wiv most people—I’ll give yeh two days more. If yeh don’t brass up by Wednesday night—then I’ll see that yeh get it where the bottle got the cork. That plain enough for yeh?” He wagged a minatory finger wearing a thick band of mourning in the nail. “Y’know what I can do to you, doncher, sonny? A dozen words out of my mouth, and ... Wow-wow. You be good, and don’t make me do it.” The boy spluttered, with vociferant hands. “No, but, Punditt, o’ man, how can I? How can I get it? There ain’t no way. I mean——”