Oh, blast! Joe took a sudden fierce kick at the stool in front of him, making Alf stop reading and look up in mild surprise.
“You’re not lissenin’, Joe,” Alf remonstrated. “What’s the good of me wastin’ my breath if you don’t lissen.”
Joe answered disagreeably:
“That fellow don’t know nowt. He gets his tips straight from the horses’ mouths. An’ the horses is all liars. I’m goin’ to get my information from Dick Jobey on the course. He’s a pal o’ mine and a man as knows what he’s talkin’ about.”
Alf gave a short expressive laugh.
“What’s like the matter with you, Joe? I’d stopped readin’ about the horses ten minutes ago. I was readin’ about the new aeroplane this fella Bleeryoh has got, you know, him that flew the Channel last year.”
Joe grunted:
“Aw’ll have a fleet o’ bloody aeroplanes myself one o’ these days. You watch.”
Alf squinted over the edge of the paper.
“I’ll watch,” he agreed with enormous sarcasm.
The door opened and Jenny came in. Joe looked up grumpily:
“You’re ready at last.”
“I’m ready,” she admitted brightly; all traces of her recent weeping had vanished and, as was often the case after a bout of tearful petulance, she was brisk, blithe as a lark. “Like my new hat?” she asked, tilting her head for him archly. “Pretty nice, mister?”
Through all his moodiness he had to grant that she did look nice. The new hat, which she wore so dashingly, set off her pale prettiness. Her figure was extraordinarily attractive, she had the most beautifully modelled legs and hips. Physically the loss of her virginity had improved her. She was riper, more assured, less anæmic; she had more go in her; she was near her point of perfection.
“Come on, then,” she laughed. “Come on you too, dad. Don’t keep me waiting or we’ll be late.”
“Keep you waiting!” Joe expostulated.
And Alf, nodding his head commiseratingly, sighed.
“Women!”
The three set out for Gosforth Park by tram, Jenny sitting between the two men, very straight and happy, while the tram bumped and bounded along North Road.
“I want to make some money,” she remarked confidentially to Joe, patting her handbag.
“You’re not the only one,” Joe answered rudely.
They went into the two-shilling ring which was pleasantly full, just enough people to interest Jenny, not enough to crowd her. She was delighted; the white railings against the bright green of the course, the colours of the jockeys, the sleek lovely horses, the shouts of the bookies under their big blue and gold umbrellas, the movement, animation and excitement of the ring, the fashionable dresses, the celebrities seen not too distantly in the paddock.
“Look, Joe, look,” she cried, clutching his arm. “There’s Lord Kell! Isn’t he a gentleman!”
Lord Kell, doyen of British sport, millionaire landowner of the North, florid, sidewhiskered and genial, stood chatting to a little scrap of a man, Lew Lester, his jockey.
Joe grunted enviously:
“If he thinks Nesfield’s goin’ to win he’s up a gum tree.” Then he barged off to find Dick Jobey.
He had a lot of trouble in finding Dick, for Dick was in the ten-shilling enclosure; but by getting hold of the ticktacker, Joe managed to summon Dick to the railings.
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Jobey,” Joe began with ingratiating friendliness. “I was just wondering if you had anything. I’m not botherin’ about myself. I never do have much on. But I’ve got my young lady and her dad along with us… my lass, you see… she’d just dance with delight if she took a couple of shillings off the ring.”
Dick Jobey tapped the toe of his neat black shoe against the railings, very pleasant and non-committal. The convention that bookmakers are full-bodied and purple-faced, talking with one corner of the mouth whilst a large cigar occupies the other, receives the lie from Dick Jobey of Tynecastle. Dick was a bookmaker, a bookmaker in quite a large way, with an office in Bigg Market and a branch in Yarrow across the road from the Catholic Church. But Dick smoked the mildest of cigarettes, drank only mineral water. A nice, quiet, affable, plainly dressed, medium-sized man who never swore, never bellowed the odds, and was never seen on any race-course but the local Gosforth Park. It was rumoured, indeed, amongst his many friends, that Dick went to Gosforth once a year to pick buttercups.
“Have you anything, then, Mr. Jobey, that I can tell the lass?”
Dick Jobey inspected Joe. He liked the tone of Joe’s remark; he had seen Joe box at St. James’s Hall; he felt, altogether, that Joe was a “likely lad.” And as Dick had a weakness for likely lads, he allowed Joe to cultivate him, to run odd commissions for him. Altogether Joe had been assiduous in worming his way into Dick Jobey’s favour. Dick spoke at last.
“I wouldn’t let her do anything till the last race, Joe.”
“No, Mr. Jobey.”
“But she might have a little on, then. Not much, you know, just half a crown for fun.”
“Yes, Mr. Jobey.”
“Of course you never can tell.”
“No, Mr. Jobey.” An excited pause. “Is it Nesfield you fancy?”
Dick shook his head.
“She hasn’t an earthly, that one. Let your young lady have a half a crown on Pink Bud. Just half a crown, mind you. And just for fun.”
Dick Jobey smiled, nodded and quietly strolled away. Thrilling with triumph, Joe elbowed his way back to Alf and Jenny.
“Oh, Joe,” Jenny protested, “wherever have you been? There’s the first race over and I’ve never even betted yet.”
In a right good humour he assured her that she could bet now to her heart’s content. Blandly he listened while she and Alf discussed their fancies. Jenny was all for picking out the pretty names, the nicest colours, or a horse belonging to someone particularly notable. Joe beamed approval. With continued blandness he accepted he money, placed her bets. She lost, lost again, and once again.
“Now isn’t that too bad?” Jenny exclaimed, completely dashed at the end of the fourth race. She had wanted so much to win. Jenny was not mean, she was generous to a fault, and quite careless of her few half-crowns; but it would have been simply lovely to win.
Alf, who had been following Captain Sanglar doggedly with nothing to show for it but an odds-on place, reassured her.
“We’ll get it all back on Nesfield, lass. She’s the three-star nap of the day.”
Gloating inside, Joe heard him plump for Nesfield.
Jenny studied her programme doubtfully.
“I’m not so sure about your old Captain,” she said. “What do you think, Joe?”
“You never can tell,” Joe suggested artlessly. “That’s Lord Kell’s filly, isn’t it?”
“So it is.” Jenny brightened. “I forgot about that. Yes, I think I better have Nesfield.”
“What about Pink Bud?” Joe ventured rather vaguely.
“Never heard of it,” Alf said promptly.
And Jenny:
“Oh no, Joe… Lord Kell’s horse for me.”
“Well” said Joe, moving off. “Have it your own way. But I think I’ll do Pink Bud.”
He took all the money he had with him, four pounds in all, and boldly slammed it on Pink Bud. He got fives about the animal, saw the price shorten rapidly to three. Then they were off. He stood at the rails, holding on tight, watching the massed horses swing round the bend. Faster, faster; he sweated, hardly dared to breathe. Panting, he watched them enter the straight, approach the post. Then he let out a wild yell. Pink Bud was home by a good two lengths.