hich were positively boyish.

Mr. Quarterpage was a youthful buck of ninety--a middle-sized,
sturdily-built man, straight as a dart, still active of limb,
clear-eyed, and strong of voice. His clean-shaven old countenance was
ruddy as a sun-warmed pippin; his hair was still only silvered; his
hand was steady as a rock. His clothes of buff-coloured whipcord were
smart and jaunty, his neckerchief as gay as if he had been going to a
fair. It seemed to Spargo that Mr. Quarterpage had a pretty long lease
of life before him even at his age.

Spargo, in his corner, sat fascinated while the old gentlemen began
their symposium. Another, making five, came in and joined them--the
five had the end of the bar-parlour to themselves. Mr. Quarterpage made
the punch with all due solemnity and ceremony; when it was ladled out
each man lighted his pipe or took a cigar, and the tongues began to
wag. Other folk came and went; the old gentlemen were oblivious of
anything but their own talk. Now and then a young gentleman of the town
dropped in to take his modest half-pint of bitter beer and to dally in
the presence of the barmaid; such looked with awe at the patriarchs: as
for the patriarchs themselves they were lost in the past.

Spargo began to understand what the damsel behind the bar meant when
she said that she believed she could write a history of Market
Milcaster since the year One. After discussing the weather, the local
events of the day, and various personal matters, the old fellows got to
reminiscences of the past, telling tale after tale, recalling incident
upon incident of long years before. At last they turned to memories of
racing days at Market Milcaster. And at that Spargo determined on a
bold stroke. Now was the time to get some information. Taking the
silver ticket from his purse, he laid it, the heraldic device
uppermost, on the palm of his hand, and approaching the group with a
polite bow, said quietly:

"Gentlemen, can any of you tell me anything about that?"

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

MR. QUARTERPAGE HARKS BACK

If Spargo had upset the old gentlemen's bowl of punch--the second of
the evening--or had dropped an infernal machine in their midst, he
could scarcely have produced a more startling effect than that wrought
upon them by his sudden production of the silver ticket. Their babble
of conversation died out; one of them dropped his pipe; another took
his cigar out of his mouth as if he had suddenly discovered