'Yes, there's something in that,' said Tony. 'Thank goodness, my little
entertainment's over. I think I _will_ try one of those chocolate
things. Thanks.'

'Welch is all right,' said Jackson. 'He could win the hundred and the
quarter on sausage-rolls. But think of the times.'

'And there,' observed Charteris, 'there, my young friend, you have
touched upon a sore subject. Before you came in I was administering a
few wholesome words of censure to that miserable object on your right.
What is a fifth of a second more or less that it should make a man
insult his digestion as Welch does? You'll hardly credit it, but for
the last three weeks or more I have been forced to look on a
fellow-being refusing pastry and drinking beastly extracts of meat, all
for the sake of winning a couple of races. It quite put me off my feed.
Cake, please. Good robust slice. Thanks.'

'It's rather funny when you come to think of it,' said Tony. 'Welch
lives on Bovril for, a month, and then, just as he thinks he's going to
score, a burglar with a sense of humour strolls into the Pav.,
carefully selects the only two cups he had a chance of winning, and so
to bed.'

'Leaving Master J. G. Welch an awful example of what comes of
training,' said Jim. 'Welch, you're a rotter.'

'It isn't my fault,' observed Welch, plaintively. 'You chaps seem to
think I've committed some sort of crime, just because a man I didn't
know from Adam has bagged a cup or two.'