“Betting!” he gargled. “Betting! You don’t mean that they’re betting on this holy, sacred⁠—Oh, I say, dash it all! Haven’t people any sense of decency and reverence? Is nothing safe from their beastly, sordid graspingness? I wonder,” said young Bingo thoughtfully, “if there’s a chance of my getting any of that seven-to-one money? Seven to one! What a price! Who’s offering it, do you know? Oh, well, I suppose it wouldn’t do. No, I suppose it wouldn’t be quite the thing.”

“You seem dashed confident,” I said. “I’d always thought that Wingham⁠—”