"He didn't learn with me, anyway. It's not once in a blue moon that he
plays at North Hill. But if he's come on, so much the better."

They played, but Raymond's form had deserted him. Waldron was much
better than the average amateur and now he gave Raymond fifty in two
hundred and beat him by as much. They dined together presently, and Job
Legg, who often lent a hand at 'The Tiger' on moments of extra pressure,
waited upon them.

"How's your uncle, Job?" asked Arthur Waldron, who was familiar with Mr.
Legg, and not seldom visited 'The Seven Stars,' when Estelle came with
him to Bridport.

"He's a goner, sir. I'm off to the funeral on Monday."

"Hope the will was all right?"

"Quite all right, sir, thank you, sir."

"Then you'll leave, no doubt, and what will Missis Northover do then?"

Legg smiled.

"It's hid in the future, sir," he answered.

A comedian, who was going to perform at the smoking concert, came in
with Mr. Gurd, and the innkeeper introduced him to Neddy and Raymond. He
joined them and added an element of great hilarity to the meal. He
abounded in good stories, and understood horse-racing as well as Neddy
Motyer himself. Neddy now called himself a 'gentleman backer,' but
admitted that, so far, it had not proved a lucrative profession.

Their talk ranged over sport and athletics. They buzzed one against the
other, and not even the humour of the comic man was proof against the
seriousness of Arthur Waldron, who demonstrated, as always, that
England's greatness had sprung from the pursuit of masculine pastimes.
The breed of horses and the breed of men alike depended upon sport. The
Empire, in Mr. Waldron's judgment, had arisen from this sublime
foundation.

"It reaches from the highest to the lowest," he declared. "The puppy
that plays most is the one that always turns into the best dog."

The smoking concert, held in Mr. Gurd's large dining-room, went the way
of such things with complete success. The boxing was of the best, and
the local lad, Tim Chick, performed with credit against his experienced
antagonist. All the comic man's songs aimed at the folly of marriage and
the horrors of domesticity. He seemed to be singing at Raymond, who
roared with the rest and hated the humourist all the time. The young man
grew uneasy and morose before the finish, drank too much whiskey, and
felt glad to get into the cold night air when all was over.

And then there happened to him a challenge very unexpect