Occasionally a little harmless betting would take place among the crowd.

"Two to one agin the old gent in the white weskit!"

"Ten to one on old Blowpipes, bar he don't roll over hisself 'fore 'e
gets there!"

"Heven money on the Purple Hemperor!"--a nickname bestowed by a youth of
entomological tastes upon a certain retired military neighbour of my
uncle's,--a gentleman of imposing appearance when stationary, but apt to
colour highly under exercise.

My uncle and the others would write to the _Ealing Press_ complaining
bitterly concerning the supineness of the local police; and the editor
would add spirited leaders upon the Decay of Courtesy among the Lower
Orders, especially throughout the Western Suburbs. But no good ever
resulted.

It was not that my uncle did not rise early enough; it was that troubles
came to him at the last moment. The first thing he would do after
breakfast would be to lose his newspaper. We always knew when Uncle
Podger had lost anything, by the expression of astonished indignation
with which, on such occasions, he would regard the world in general. It
never occurred to my Uncle Podger to say to himself:

"I am a careless old man. I lose everything: I never know where I have
put anything. I am quite incapable of finding it again for myself. In
this respect I must be a perfect nuisance to everybody about me. I must
set to work and reform myself."