“It was long odds on Wilson when last I heard.”

“Yes; but there came a man who laid freely the other way, and he started others taking the odds, until now you can get even money.”

“Who started it?”

“Why, that’s he!  The man that lies drunk in the passage.  He’s been pouring it down like water ever since he drove in at six o’clock, so it’s no wonder he’s like that.”

Belcher stooped down and turned over the man’s inert head so as to show his features.

“He’s a stranger to me, sir.”

“And to me,” added my uncle.

“But not to me,” I cried.  “It’s John Cumming, the landlord of the inn at Friar’s Oak.  I’ve known him ever since I was a boy, and I can’t be mistaken.”

“Well, what the devil can he know about it?” said Craven.

“Nothing at all, in all probability,” answered my uncle.  “He is backing young Jim because he knows him, and because he has more brandy than sense.  His drunken confidence set others to do the same, and so the odds came down.”

“He was as sober as a judge when he drove in here this morning,” said the landlord.  “He began backing Sir Charles’s nominee from the moment he arrived.  Some of the other boys took the office from him, and they very soon brought the odds down amongst them.”

“I wish he had not brought himself down as well,” said my uncle.  “I beg that you will bring me a little lavender water, landlord, for the smell of this crowd is appalling.  I suppose you could not get any sense from this drunken fellow, nephew, or find out what it is he knows.”

It was in vain that I rocked him by the shoulder and shouted his name in his ear.  Nothing could break in upon that serene intoxication.

“Well, it’s a unique situation as far as my experience goes,” said Berkeley Craven.  “Here we are within a couple of hours of the fight, and yet you don’t know whether you have a man to represent you.  I hope you don’t stand to lose very much, Tregellis.”

My uncle shrugged his shoulders carelessly, and took a pinch of his snuff with that inimitable sweeping gesture which no man has ever ventured to imitate.

“Pretty well, my boy!” said he.  “But it is time that we thought of going up to the Downs.  This night journey has left me just a little effleure, and I should like half an hour of privacy to arrange my toilet.  If this is my last kick, it shall at least be with a well-brushed boot.”

I have heard a traveller from the wilds of America say that he looked upon the Red Indian and the English gentleman as closely akin, citing the passion for sport, the aloofness and the suppression of the emotions in each.  I thought of his words as I watched my uncle that morning, for I believe that no victim tied to the stake could have had a worse outlook before him.  It was not merely that his own fortunes were largely at stake, but it was the dreadful position