“Not fer me,” said Docker Morgan dismally; “I sworn off after the Balaam Stakes.”

“I never ’eard tell of that race,” said Jimmy.

“Well, it ain’t one of the classic events.  It were run over there.”  Docker jerked a thumb vaguely in the direction of France.  “At a ‘Concours Hippique,’ which is posh fer ‘Race Meeting.’  Our orficers arranged it just afore our troops left the area, and nacherally fixed it fer the most awkward time fer me an’ Nigger Rolf, being just between paydays.  After payin’ to go on the course we’d only got five francs left fer investment purposes.  Nigger wanted to plunge right away, but I stopped ’im.

“‘No,’ says I; ’we don’t know ’orses, but we does know mules, leastways as much as anyone does know mules.  Let’s scoop on this.’

“‘An’ I showed ’im the programme, which said:—­

“’5.30.—­The Balaam Stakes.  For Government Mules ridden or driven by British N.C.O.’s and men during the War.’

“We walked round the course an’ tumbled acrost Ping Brown, got up ong chevalier.

“‘Aw-aw, Donoghue’ says I, ’is it worth while backing you for a cool thou for the Balaam?’

“‘Well,’ says he, ’I’m riding Perishing Percy.  If it wus a clog-dancing competition it ‘ud be easy money, but bein’ a race, back any one, even the starter, sooner than me.’

“Then I met Spruggy Boyce, who useter drive with me in the Umpteenth Field Ambulance.

“‘Glory, Docker,’ says he, falling on my neck, his top-boots being a bit loose, ‘I was looking for you.’

“‘I ain’t got no money,’ says I.

“’But you can ‘ave,’ he whispers confidential, like they do in the pictures.  ‘I’m riding Red Liz in the Balaam.’

“‘Well,’ I replies, ’I’m not denying that Red Liz is a perfect lady; but that’s ‘er trouble—­she’s too ladylike to pass anyone.’

“‘Docker,’ he hisses, ’do you remember driving ’er one day down the Menin Road when Fritz started shelling?’

“’Don’t I just!  Why, she didn’t fetch up till nearly at St. Omer, and the shells lost heart becos they couldn’t catch ‘er.  But,’ I says regretfully, it takes shells to start Red Liz, an’ we ain’t got none.’

“’No, we ‘aven’t got shells,’ whispers Spruggy, ’but I ’ve got some crackers; an’ if you sprinkle some on the course, it’s a cert.’

“‘Right-o!’ says I.  ‘Me an’ Nigger will see it through, if you’ll lend us another five francs to invest.’

“Then I went to cherchay a bookie, but I couldn’t find one anywheres.

“’They don’t ’ave ’em ‘ere,’ says Nigger.  ’You invests at the sheds over there—­the Paree Mutual.’

“‘That’s an insurance company,’ answers I.  ’I want to put a bit on, not take out a life policy.’

“‘That’s the place, I tells you,’ says Nigger; ’the Paree Mutual or the Total Liza.  If you don’t ’urry you won’t get it on before the race starts.’