―What’s up with you, says I to Lenehan. You look like a fellow that had lost a bob and found a tanner.

―Gold cup, says he.

―Who won, Mr Lenehan? says Terry.

― Throwaway , says he, at twenty to one. A rank outsider. And the rest nowhere.

―And Bass’s mare? says Terry.

―Still running, says he. We’re all in a cart. Boylan plunged two quid on my tip Sceptre for himself and a lady friend.