Gustav came up with his car and pulled in behind me.
"How's the pup, Robert?" he asked.
"He's fine," said. I.
"And you?"
I waved my hand ill-humouredly.
"I'd be fine too, if I could earn a bit more.
Think of it, two whole fifty pfennig fares to-day."
He nodded.
"It gets steadily worse.
Everything is getting steadily worse. And more to come."
"Yes, and I absolutely must have some money," said I. "Right now.
A lot of money."
Gustav scratched his chin.
"A lot of money." Then he looked at me. "There's not a great deal to be picked up anywhere, really.
Unless you speculate.
What do you say to the tote?
There are races to-day.
I know a first-rate joint. Made twenty-eight to one on Aida there, just recently."
"Don't care what it is.
Is there a chance, that's the main thing?"
"Have you backed horses before?"
"Never."
"Then you have beginner's luck—we might do something with that." He looked at his watch. "Should we go now?
We can just make it."
"Right." Since the business with the dog I had a lot of confidence in Gustav.
The betting place was a fairly large room; the right half was a cigar stall, on the left was the totalisator.
The show window was hung full of green and pink sporting papers and tips.
Along one wall ran a counter with writing materials.
Behind it were three men in frenzied activity.
One was shouting down the telephone, another was running to and fro with slips in his hands, and the third, a bowler hat on the back of his head, rolling a fat, black Brazilian cigar between his teeth, coatless, with sleeves rolled up, stood behind the counter noting the bets. His shirt was of the most intense violet.
To my surprise there was plenty of business.
They were almost exclusively little people, craftsmen, workers, small clerks, a few pros'titutes and various hangers-on.
At the door a chap with a dirty, grey mackintosh, grey bowler hat, and threadbare grey sports coat stopped us.
"Von Bieling.
Tips, gentlemen?
Dead certs."
"Tell your grandmother," said Gustav, who had suddenly taken on a quite different expression.
"Only fifty pfennigs," urged Bieling. "Know the trainer personally.
Out of the old days," he added at a glance from me.
Gustav was already studying the list of events.
"When does the Auteuil come out?" he called across to the counter.
"Five o'clock," quacked the assistant.
"Philomene, fat old batch," growled Gustav. "Proper draft horse in sticky weather." He was already sweating with excitement. "What's the next?" he asked.
"Hoppegarten," said someone beside him.
Gustav studied further.
"We'll put two bucks each on Tristan as a beginning," he announced to me.
"Sure thing."
"Do you know anything about it, then?" I asked.
"Know anything?" Gustav answered. "I know every horse's hoof."
"And yet you're backing Tristan?" said someone alongside us. "Slippery Liz. man, your only chance.