I know Johnny Burns personally."
"And I," retorted Gustav imperturbably, "am the owner of Slippery Liz's stable.
I know better still."
He called out bets to the chap at the counter.
We received a slip and sat down in the front of the hall where there were some tables and chairs.
The air about us was humming with all manner of names.
Some workmen were discussing horses racing at Nice, two postmen were studying the weather report from Paris, and an ex-coachman was reminiscing about the time when he drove in trotting races.
Only one fat man with bristling hair sat indifferent at his table eating one bread roll after another.
Two others were leaning against the wall watching him greedily.
Each had a ticket in his hand, but their faces were haggard as if they had not eaten for days.
The telephone rang loudly.
All ears pricked up.
The assistant called out the names.
Of Tristan not a word was to be heard.
"Damn," said Gustav and his face flushed. "Solomon's done it.
Who'd have thought it, you?" he demanded of Slippery Liz. "You were well down too—also ran."
Von Bieling appeared between us.
"If you'd listened to me, gentlemen—I could have told you Solomon.
Only Solomon.
If you like, for the next race—"
Gustav was not even listening.
He had comforted himself and was now involved in a technical discussion with Slippery Liz.
"Do you know about horses?" Bieling asked me.
"Not a thing," said I. "Then back.
Back.
But only to-day," he added in a whisper, "and never again.
Listen to me.
You back—it doesn't matter what—King Lear or Silver Moth—or perhaps L'Heure Bleue.
I don't want any money.
Give me something if you win, that's all." His chin was trembling with the gambler's passion.
I knew from poker the old rule: Beginners often win.
"All right," said I, "what on?"
"Whatever you like—whatever you like—"
"L'Heure Bleue doesn't sound bad to me," said I, "ten marks on L'Heure Bleue then."
"Are you cracked?" asked Gustav.
"No," said I.
"Ten of the best on that crock? She ought to have been sausage meat long ago."
Slippery Liz, whom Gustav himself had just been calling a poor sap, chimed in, talking big:
"What's that?
Backing Laura Blaue is he?
That's a cow, not a horse, sir.
May Dream could beat him on two legs if he wants to.
Compris?"
Bieling looked at me imploringly, making signs.
"Compris," said I,
"Ach, man." Gustav looked at me as if I had turned into a Hottentot. "Gipsy II, any babe unborn knows that."
"I'm sticking to L'Heure Bleue," I announced.
It would have been against all the mystic laws of gambling to change now.
The man with the lavender shirt handed me a slip.
Gustav and Slippery Liz eyed me as if I had the plague.