cannot resist a small wager. On several occasions he has gambled with
me and shown himself to be a gentleman of considerable acumen.

Our business was finished and we were on the way back to Town by the
great West of England non-stop Swallowtail. We had lunched well and
discussed everything there was to discuss. It was a moment for rest. I
unfolded my paper and proceeded to envelop myself in the usual way.

I seemed to hear the chink of glasses ... a voice murmured, "A pretty
safe thing to bet on."

Then in a dreamy sort of manner I realised that Fate had delivered
Westaby Jones into my hands. When we were within twenty miles of
London I opened the campaign. I grossly abused the line on which we
were travelling and suggested that anybody could make a fortune by
assuming that its best train would roll in well after the scheduled
time.

Westaby Jones, having privily ascertained that the engine-driver had
a minute or so in hand, immediately pinned me down to what he thought
(but wisely did not say) were the wild inaccuracies of an imbecile.
He did it to the extent of twenty-five pounds, and I sat back with the
comfortable feeling of a man who will shortly have a small legacy to
expend. At the moment which I had calculated to be most auspicious I
suddenly threw off the semblance of boredom, rose up, lurched across
the carriage and pulled the communication cord. (For the benefit
of those who have not done this I may say that the cord comes away
pleasantly in the hand and, at the same time, gives one a piquant
feeling of unofficial responsibility.) Westaby Jones was, for a
stockbroker, obviously astonished.