We might linger here a moment to muse over the simple beginnings of great
men, but time is pressing and we are all agog to visit the Bargain
Basement.

An express lift flashes us downwards in a few seconds and behold we are in
the midst of rows of counters groaning under bargains that even the New
Poor can scarce forbear to grasp.

Here, for example, is one-hundred-to-eight offered against Pincushion for
the Gimcrack Stakes. This wondrous animal's lineage and previous
performances are carefully tabulated on a card at the side, and,
remembering the form he showed at Gatwick, one wonders, as the man in the
street would say, how it is done.

Or look at Tom-tom, which left the others simply standing in a field of
forty-four at Kempton Park, and carrying eight-stone-seven. Here he has a
paltry four-pound penalty for the Worcester Welter Handicap, yet one can
have seven to one about him.

How the House of Pryce can offer such bargains is a mystery to the old
school of red-necked bookmakers, whose Oxford accent was not pronounced.
They fail to see what courtesy, urbanity and meat-teas at three shillings
per head can do in the way of stimulating business.

From the Bargain Basement we wander at will through the remaining
departments, making inquiries here and there from the expert assistants,
technically known as laymen, without being once importuned to make a bet.

And when at length, refreshed and pleased with a delightful afternoon, we
pass again through the portals of the House of Pryce, we make for home,