Do what he would, go where he would, his thoughts
were upon horse-racing.
I was staying with Charley Carew, the owner and occupier of Beddington
Park, with a small party of guests invited for shooting. One morning
there was to be a rabbit-killing expedition, and after a pretty good
morning's walk, I had a rest, and then leisurely went along towards
the trysting-place for lunch. It was a large oak tree, and as I came
up there was Hodgman, the bookie, who did not see me, walking round
the rabbits, which lay in rows, counting them, and muttering,
"_Two--four--twenty_," and so on up to a hundred. He then paused, and
after a while soliloquized, "Ah! fancy a hundred! One hundred _dead
uns_! What would I give for such a lot for the Chester Cup!"
His mind was not with the rabbits except in connection with his
betting-book on the Chester Cup. He was by no means singular except in
the manner of showing his propensity. The devotees of "Bridge" are all
Hodgmans in their way.
At the Benchers' table I was speaking of Clarkson in reference to the
Old Bailey. He had been with me in consultation in a very bad case. We
had not the ghost of a chance of winning it, and indicated our opinion
to that effect to the unhappy client.
He turned from us with a sad look, as if desperation had seized him,
and then, with tears in his eyes, asked Clarkson if he thought it
advisable for him to _surrender_ and take his trial.
Pages:
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373