“Well, I think you might say it with truth,” answered Crowfoot. “And old sporting matters?” said Spargo. “Yes, and old sporting matters,” replied the other with a sudden flash of the eye. “Not that they greatly interest the modern generation, you know.” “Well, there’s something that’s interesting me greatly just now, anyway,” said Spargo. “And I believe it’s got to do with old sporting affairs. And I came to you for information about it, believing you to be the only man I know of that could tell anything.” “Yes—what is it?” asked Crowfoot. Spargo drew out an envelope, and took from it the carefully-wrapped-up silver ticket. He took off the wrappings and laid the ticket on Crowfoot’s outstretched palm. “Can you tell me what that is?” he asked. Another sudden flash came into the old sportsman’s eyes—he eagerly turned the silver ticket over. “God bless my soul!” he exclaimed. “Where did you get this?” “Never mind, just now,” replied Spargo. “You know what it is?” “Certainly I know what it is! But—Gad! I’ve not seen one of these things for Lord knows how many years. It makes me feel something like a young ’un again!” said Crowfoot. “Quite a young ’un!” “But what is it?” asked Spargo. Crowfoot turned the ticket over, showing the side on which the heraldic device was almost worn away. “It’s one of the original silver stand tickets of the old racecourse at Market Milcaster,” answered Crowfoot. “That’s what it is. One of the old original silver stand tickets. There are the arms of Market Milcaster, you see, nearly worn away by much rubbing. There, on the obverse, is the figure of a running horse. Oh, yes, that’s what it is! Bless me!—most interesting.” “Where’s Market Milcaster?” enquired Spargo. “Don’t know it.” “Market Milcaster,” replied Crowfoot, still turning the silver ticket over and over, “is what the topographers call a decayed town in Elmshire. It has steadily decayed since the river that led to it got gradually silted up. There used to be a famous race-meeting there in June every year. It’s nearly forty years since that meeting fell through. I went to it often when I was a lad—often!” “And you say that’s a ticket for the stand?” asked Spargo. “This is one of fifty silver tickets, or passes, or whatever you like to call ’em, which were given by the race committee to fifty burgesses of the town,” answered Crowfoot. “It was, I remember, considered a great privilege to possess a silver ticket. It admitted its possessor—for life, mind you!—to the stand, the paddocks, the ring, anywhere. It also gave him a place at the annual race-dinner. Where on earth did you get this, Spargo?” Spargo took the ticket and carefully re-wrapped it, this time putting it in his purse. “I’m awfully obliged to you, Crowfoot,” he said, “The fact is, I can’t tell you where I got it just now, but I’ll promise you that I will tell you, and all about it, too, as soon as my tongue’s free to do so.” “Some mystery, eh?” suggested Crowfoot.