“Not a bad glass of wine that,” says Carew to him; “what do you think of it?”

“Not bad,” says the bagman, sipping it, “Think I’ll show you something better in this line if you’ll come and dine with me in London when you’re home next.”

“Thanks,” says Carew, getting as red as his own jacket, and beginning to splutter—­he always did when he got angry—­“this is good enough for me, and for most people here—­”

“Oh, but nobody up here has got a palate left,” says the bagman, laughing in a very superior sort of way.

“What do you mean, sir?” shouted Carew, jumping up.  “I’ll not have any d——­d bagmen coming here to insult me!”

By George, if you’ll believe me, Carew had a false palate, with a little bit of sponge in the middle, and we all knew it, except the bagman.  There was a frightful shindy, Carew wanting to have his blood, and all the rest of us trying to prevent a row.  We succeeded somehow in the end, I don’t quite know how we managed it, as the bagman was very warlike too; but, anyhow, when I was going to bed that night I saw them both in the billiard room, very tight, leaning up against opposite ends of the billiard table, and making shoves at the balls—­with the wrong ends of their cues, fortunately.

“He called me a d——­d bagman,” says one, nearly tumbling down with laughing.

“Told me I’d no palate,” says the other, putting his head down on the table and giggling away there “best thing I ever heard in my life.”

Every one was as good friends as possible next day at the races, and for the whole week as well.  Unfortunately for the bagman his horse didn’t pull off things in the way he expected, in fact he hadn’t a look in—­we just killed him from first to last.  As things went on the bagman began to look queer and by the end of the week he stood to lose a pretty considerable lot of money, nearly all of it to me.  The way we arranged these matters then was a general settling-up day after the races were over; every one squared up his books and planked ready money down on the nail, or if he hadn’t got it he went and borrowed from some one else to do it with.  The bagman paid up what he owed the others, and I began to feel a bit sorry for the fellow when he came to me that night to finish up.  He hummed and hawed a bit, and then asked if I should mind taking an I.O.U. from him, as he was run out of the ready.

Of course I said, “All right, old man, certainly, just the same to me,” though it’s usual in such cases to put down the hard cash, but still—­fellow staying in my house, you know—­sent on by this pal of mine in the 11th—­absolutely nothing else to be done.

Next morning I was up and out on parade as usual, and in the natural course of events began to look about for my bagman.  By George, not a sign of him in his room, not a sign of him anywhere.  I thought to myself, this is peculiar, and I went over to the stable to try whether there was anything to be heard of him.