Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 156, May 7, 1919. by Various
page 26 of 67 (38%)
page 26 of 67 (38%)
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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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