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Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 156, May 7, 1919. by Various
page 26 of 67 (38%)
person. I say "gathered," for Albert Edward did not trouble to
introduce the friend of his youth, but, flinging himself into a chair,
attacked his food in a sulky silence which endured all through the
repast. Mr. Cazenove, on the other hand, was in excellent form. He had
spent a beautiful day, he said, and didn't care who knew it. A judge
of horseflesh from the cradle, he had spotted the winner every time,
backed his fancy like a little man and had been very generously
rewarded by the Totalizator. He was contemplating a trip to Brussels
in a day or so. Was his dear old friend Albert Edward coming?

His "dear old friend" (who was eating his thumb-nails instead of his
savoury) scowled and said he thought not.

The gunner wagged his head sagely. "Ah, well, old chap, if you
will bet on horses which roar like a den of lions you must take the
consequences."

Albert Edward writhed. "That animal used to win sprints in England; do
you know that?"

Mr. Cazenove shrugged his shoulders.

"He may have thirty years ago. All I'd back him to win now would be an
old-age pension. Well, I warned you, didn't I?"

Albert Edward lost control. "When I'm reduced to taking advice on
racing form from a Tasmanian I'll chuck the game and hie me to a
monkery. Why, look at that bit of bric-à-brac you were riding to-day;
a decent God-fearing Australian wouldn't be seen dead in a ten-acre
paddock with it."
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