Esther Waters Part 45

"Well, Herbert, the omen wasn't altogether up to the mark this time," said Journeyman, with a malicious twinkle in his small brown eyes.

"No, it was one of them unfortunate accidents."

"One of them unfortunate accidents," repeated Journeyman, derisively; "what's accidents to do with them that 'as to do with the reading of omens? I thought they rose above such trifles as weights, distances, bad riding.... A stone or two should make no difference if the omen is right."

Ketley was no way put out by the slight t.i.tter that Journeyman's retort had produced in the group about the bar. He drank his whisky-and-water deliberately, like one, to use a racing expression, who had been over the course before.

"I've 'eard that argument. I know all about it, but it don't alter me. Too many strange things occur for me to think that everything can be calculated with a bit of lead-pencil in a greasy pocket-book."

"What has the grease of my pocket-book to do with it?" replied Journeyman, looking round. The company smiled and nodded. "You says that signs and omens is above any calculation of weights. Never mind the pocket-book, greasy or not greasy; you says that these omens is more to be depended on than the best stable information."

"I thought that you placed no reliance on stable information, and that you was guided by the weights that you calculated in that 'ere pocket-book."

"What's my pocket-book to do with it? You want to see my pocket-book; well, here it is, and I'll bet two gla.s.ses of beer that it ain't greasier than any other pocket-book in this bar."

"I don't see meself what pocket-books, greasy or not greasy, has to do with it," said William. "Walter put a fair question to Herbert. The omen didn't come out right, and Walter wanted to know why it didn't come out right."

"That was it," said Journeyman.

All eyes were now fixed on Ketley. "You want to know why the omen wasn't right? I'll tell you--because it was no omen at all, that's why. The omens always comes right; it is we who aren't always in the particular state of mind that allows us to read the omens right." Journeyman shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. Ketley looked at him with the same expression of placid amus.e.m.e.nt. "You'd like me to explain; well, I will. The omen is always right, but we aren't always in the state of mind for the reading of the omen. You think that ridiculous, Walter; but why should omens differ from other things? Some days we can get through our accounts in 'alf the time we can at other times, the mind being clearer. I asks all present if that is not so."

Ketley had got hold of his audience, and Journeyman's remark about closing time only provoked a momentary t.i.tter. Ketley looked long and steadily at Journeyman and then said, "Perhaps closing time won't do no more for your calculation of weights than for my omens.... I know them jokes, we've 'eard them afore; but I'm not making jokes; I'm talking serious." The company nodded approval. "I was saying there was times when the mind is fresh like the morning. That's the time for them what 'as got the gift of reading the omens. It is a sudden light that comes into the mind, and it points straight like a ray of sunlight, if there be nothing to stop it....

Now do you understand?" No one had understood, but all felt that they were on the point of understanding. "The whole thing is in there being nothing to interrupt the light."

"But you says yourself that yer can't always read them," said Journeyman; "an accident will send you off on the wrong tack, so it all comes to the same thing, omens or no omens."

"A man will trip over a piece of wire laid across the street, but that don't prove he can't walk, do it, Walter?"

Walter was unable to say that it did not, and so Ketley scored another point over his opponent. "I made a mistake, I know I did, and if it will help you to understand I'll tell you how it was made. Three weeks ago I was in this 'ere bar 'aving what I usually takes. It was a bit early; none of you fellows had come in. I don't think it was much after eight. The governor was away in the north racin'--hadn't been 'ome for three or four days; the missus was beginning to look a bit lonely." Ketley smiled and glanced at Esther, who had told Charles to serve some customers, and was listening as intently as the rest. "I'd 'ad a nice bit of supper, and was just feeling that fresh and clear 'eaded as I was explaining to you just now is required for the reading, thinking of nothing in perticler, when suddenly the light came. I remembered a conversation I 'ad with a chap about American corn. He wouldn't 'ear of the Government taxing corn to 'elp the British farmer. Well, that conversation came back to me as clear as if the dawn had begun to break. I could positively see the b.l.o.o.d.y corn; I could pretty well 'ave counted it. I felt there was an omen about somewhere, and all of a tremble I took up the paper; it was lying on the bar just where your hand is, Walter. But at that moment, just as I was about to cast my eye down the list of 'orses, a cab comes down the street as 'ard as it could tear. There was but two or three of us in the bar, and we rushed out--the shafts was broke, 'orse galloping and kicking, and the cabby 'olding on as 'ard as he could. But it was no good, it was bound to go, and over it went against the kerb. The cabby, poor chap, was pretty well shook to pieces; his leg was broke, and we'd to 'elp to take him to the hosspital. Now I asks if it was no more than might be expected that I should have gone wrong about the omen. Next day, as luck would have it, I rolled up 'alf a pound of b.u.t.ter in a piece of paper on which 'Cross Roads' was written."

"But if there had been no accident and you 'ad looked down the list of 'orses, 'ow do yer know that yer would 'ave spotted the winner?"

"What, not Wheatear, and with all that American corn in my 'ead? Is it likely I'd've missed it?"

No one answered, and Ketley drank his whisky in the midst of a most thoughtful silence. At last one of the group said, and he seemed to express the general mind of the company--

"I don't know if omens be worth a-following of, but I'm blowed if 'orses be worth backing if the omens is again them."

His neighbour answered, "And they do come wonderful true occasional. They 'as 'appened to me, and I daresay to all 'ere present." The company nodded. "You've noticed how them that knows nothing at all about 'orses--the less they knows the better their luck--will look down the lot and spot the winner from pure fancy--the name that catches their eyes as likely."

"There's something in it," said a corpulent butcher with huge, pursy, prominent eyes and a portentous stomach. "I always held with going to church, and I hold still more with going to church since I backed Vanity for the Chester Cup. I was a-falling asleep over the sermon, when suddenly I wakes up hearing, 'Vanity of vanities, and all is vanity.'"

Several similar stories were told, and then various systems for backing horses were discussed. "You don't believe that no 'orses is pulled?" said Mr. Stack, the porter at Sutherland Mansions, Oxford Street, a large, bluff man, wearing a dark blue square-cut frock coat with bra.s.s b.u.t.tons. A curious-looking man, with red-stained skin, dark beady eyes, a scanty growth of beard, and a loud, a.s.suming voice. "You don't believe that no 'orses is pulled?" he reiterated.

"I didn't say that no 'orse was never pulled," said Journeyman. He stood with his back leaning against the part.i.tion, his long legs stretched out.

"If one was really in the know, then I don't say nothing about it; but who of us is ever really in the know?"

"I'm not so sure about that," said Mr. Stack. "There's a young man in my mansions that 'as a servant; this servant's cousin, a girl in the country, keeps company with one of the lads in the White House stable. If that ain't good enough, I don't know what is; good enough for my half-crown and another pint of beer too, Mrs. Latch, as you'll be that kind."

Esther drew the beer, and Old John, who had said nothing till now, suddenly joined in the conversation. He too had heard of something; he didn't know if it was the same as Stack had heard of; he didn't expect it was. It couldn't very well be, 'cause no one knew of this particular horse, not a soul!--not 'alf-a-dozen people in the world. No, he would tell no one until his money and the stable money was all right. And he didn't care for no half-crowns or dollars this time, if he couldn't get a sovereign or two on the horse he'd let it alone. This time he'd be a man or a mouse. Every one was listening intently, but old John suddenly a.s.sumed an air of mystery and refused to say another word. The conversation worked back whither it had started, and again the best method of backing horses was pa.s.sionately discussed. Interrupting someone whose theories seemed intolerably ludicrous, Journeyman said--

"Let's 'ear what's the governor's opinion; he ought to know what kind of backer gets the most out of him."

Journeyman's proposal to submit the question to the governor met with very general approval. Even the vagrant who had taken his tankard of porter to the bench where he could drink and eat what fragments of food he had collected, came forward, interested to know what kind of backer got most out of the bookmaker.

"Well," said William, "I haven't been making a book as long as some of them, but since you ask me what I think I tell you straight. I don't care a d.a.m.n whether they backs according to their judgment, or their dreams, or their fancy. The cove that follows favourites, or the cove that backs a jockey's mount, the cove that makes an occasional bet when he hears of a good thing, the cove that bets regular, 'cording to a system--the cove, yer know, what doubles every time--or the cove that bets as the mood takes him--them and all the other coves, too numerous to be mentioned, I'm glad to do business with. I cries out to one as 'eartily as to another: 'The old firm, the old firm, don't forget the old firm.... What can I do for you to-day, sir?' There's but one sort of cove I can't abide."

"And he is--" said Journeyman.

"He is Mr. George Buff."

"Who's he? who's he?" asked several; and the vagrant caused some amus.e.m.e.nt by the question, "Do 'e bet on the course?"

"Yes, he do," said William, "an' nowhere else. He's at every meeting as reg'lar as if he was a bookie himself. I 'ates to see his face.... I'd be a rich man if I'd all the money that man 'as 'ad out of me in the last three years."

"What should you say was his system?" asked Mr. Stack.

"I don't know no more than yerselves."

This admission seemed a little chilling; for everyone had thought himself many steps nearer El Dorado.

"But did you ever notice," said Mr. Ketley, "that there was certain days on which he bet?"

"No, I never noticed that."

"Are they outsiders that he backs?" asked Stack.

"No, only favourites. But what I can't make out is that there are times when he won't touch them; and when he don't, nine times out of ten they're beaten."

"Are the 'orses he backs what you'd call well in?" said Journeyman.

"Not always."

"Then it must be on information from the stable authorities?" said Stack.

"I dun know," said William; "have it that way if you like, but I'm glad there ain't many about like him. I wish he'd take his custom elsewhere. He gives me the solid hump, he do."

"What sort of man should you say he was? 'as he been a servant, should you say?" asked old John.

"I can't tell you what he is. Always new suit of clothes and a hie-gla.s.s.

Whenever I see that 'ere hie-gla.s.s and that brown beard my heart goes down in my boots. When he don't bet he takes no notice, walks past with a vague look on his face, as if he didn't see the people, and he don't care that for the 'orses. Knowing he don't mean no business, I cries to him, 'The best price, Mr. Buff; two to one on the field, ten to one bar two or three.' He just catches his hie-gla.s.s tighter in eye and looks at me, smiles, shakes his head, and goes on. He is a warm 'un; he is just about as 'ot as they make 'em."

"What I can't make out," said Journeyman, "is why he bets on the course.

You say he don't know nothing about horses. Why don't he remain at 'ome and save the exes?"

"I've thought of all that," said William, "and can't make no more out of it than you can yerselves. All we know is that, divided up between five or six of us, Buff costs not far short of six 'undred a year."

At that moment a small blond man came into the bar. Esther knew him at once. It was Ginger. He had hardly changed at all--a little sallower, a little dryer, a trifle less like a gentleman.