rapidly quelled.
“When the sixth horse goes down nobody will ever speak to me again,” the back-patted Jim told the Professor. “Five offers of marriage I have had already.”
“Perk up,” the scholar replied. “I know the odds are unthinkable, but I have a feeling just the same.”
Omally stuffed a pint of Large into each of Pooley’s outstretched hands. “What a game this, then?” said he.
“You will hate me also,” Pooley replied dismally.
“Me?” Omally pressed his hands to his heart. “But I love you, my dearest friend, the brother I never had.”
“You have five brothers.”
“None like you.”
Jim considered his two pints and raised both simultaneously to his lips. It was the kind of feat no man could be expected to perform twice in a lifetime, but he drained the two at a single draught. “Oh cruel fate,” said he, wiping the merest drip from his chin.
“Tell me, Jim,” Professor Slocombe asked, as a crowd of female kissers took turns at their hero’s cheek, “how did you do it? Was it the product of pure chance or through the study of form? I ask out of professional interest, I can assure you that it will go no further.”
Jim brushed away the barmaid from the New Inn, whose arm had snaked about his waist. “If you really want to know, it was down to you and your talk of numerology. Find the pattern, you said. Break everything down to its numerological equivalent, you said, and the answer is yours.”
Professor Slocombe nodded enthusiastically, a light shone in his old face. “Yes, yes,” he cried, “then you have solved it, you have found the key. Tell me Jim, I must know.”
“It wasn’t all that,” Jim replied. “Get off there woman, those are private places. I simply followed the lines.”
“The lines? What lines?”
Pooley pushed his racing paper towards the Professor, “Those boys there,” he said. “Madam, put those hands away.”
Professor Slocombe drew a quivering finger across the row of computer lines, eighteen in all, three groups of six. “Oh my Lord,” he said slowly. “Jim, do you realize what you’ve done?”
“Pulled off The Big One.”
“Very much more than that.” Professor Slocombe thumbed the paper back to its front page. “I knew it. This is not your paper.”
“I borrowed it,” said Jim guiltily.
“Jim, tear up the slip. I am not joking. You don’t understand what you’ve got yourself into. Tear it up now, I implore you.”
“Leave it out,” Jim Pooley replied.
“I will write you a cheque.” The Professor brought out his cheque-book. “Name the sum.”
“Is the man jesting?” Pooley turned to Old Pete who was banging his deaf aid on to the bar counter.
“I’ve gone deaf here,” the other replied.
“Jim,” the Professor implored, “listen, please.”
“Pete,” said Pooley, “you old fool, give me that thing.”
Three o’clock was fast approaching upon the Guinness clock.
“Switch her on then,” said somebody, nudging Old Pete upon the arm.
Now, it must be fairly stated that Pete’s hearing aid was not one of those microchipped miracle appliances one reads so much of in the popular press. Such articles, one is so informed, although no bigger than a garden pea, can broadcast the sound of a moth breaking wind to the massed appreciation of an entire Wembley cup-tie crowd. No, old Pete’s contraption was not one of these. Here instead, you had the valve, the pink Bakelite case, and the now totally expended tungsten carbide battery.
“It’s broke,” said Old Pete. “Caput.”
“It’s what?”
“Pardon?” the elder replied. “You’ll have to speak up, my deaf aid’s gone.”
“Deaf aid’s gone. Deaf aid’s gone.” The word spread like marge on a muffin. The panic spread with it.
“Tear up the slip,” the Professor commanded, his words lost in the growing din. Pooley clutched it to his bosom as the threatened firstborn it was. Omally sought Neville’s knobkerry as the crowd turned into a
“When the sixth horse goes down nobody will ever speak to me again,” the back-patted Jim told the Professor. “Five offers of marriage I have had already.”
“Perk up,” the scholar replied. “I know the odds are unthinkable, but I have a feeling just the same.”
Omally stuffed a pint of Large into each of Pooley’s outstretched hands. “What a game this, then?” said he.
“You will hate me also,” Pooley replied dismally.
“Me?” Omally pressed his hands to his heart. “But I love you, my dearest friend, the brother I never had.”
“You have five brothers.”
“None like you.”
Jim considered his two pints and raised both simultaneously to his lips. It was the kind of feat no man could be expected to perform twice in a lifetime, but he drained the two at a single draught. “Oh cruel fate,” said he, wiping the merest drip from his chin.
“Tell me, Jim,” Professor Slocombe asked, as a crowd of female kissers took turns at their hero’s cheek, “how did you do it? Was it the product of pure chance or through the study of form? I ask out of professional interest, I can assure you that it will go no further.”
Jim brushed away the barmaid from the New Inn, whose arm had snaked about his waist. “If you really want to know, it was down to you and your talk of numerology. Find the pattern, you said. Break everything down to its numerological equivalent, you said, and the answer is yours.”
Professor Slocombe nodded enthusiastically, a light shone in his old face. “Yes, yes,” he cried, “then you have solved it, you have found the key. Tell me Jim, I must know.”
“It wasn’t all that,” Jim replied. “Get off there woman, those are private places. I simply followed the lines.”
“The lines? What lines?”
Pooley pushed his racing paper towards the Professor, “Those boys there,” he said. “Madam, put those hands away.”
Professor Slocombe drew a quivering finger across the row of computer lines, eighteen in all, three groups of six. “Oh my Lord,” he said slowly. “Jim, do you realize what you’ve done?”
“Pulled off The Big One.”
“Very much more than that.” Professor Slocombe thumbed the paper back to its front page. “I knew it. This is not your paper.”
“I borrowed it,” said Jim guiltily.
“Jim, tear up the slip. I am not joking. You don’t understand what you’ve got yourself into. Tear it up now, I implore you.”
“Leave it out,” Jim Pooley replied.
“I will write you a cheque.” The Professor brought out his cheque-book. “Name the sum.”
“Is the man jesting?” Pooley turned to Old Pete who was banging his deaf aid on to the bar counter.
“I’ve gone deaf here,” the other replied.
“Jim,” the Professor implored, “listen, please.”
“Pete,” said Pooley, “you old fool, give me that thing.”
Three o’clock was fast approaching upon the Guinness clock.
“Switch her on then,” said somebody, nudging Old Pete upon the arm.
Now, it must be fairly stated that Pete’s hearing aid was not one of those microchipped miracle appliances one reads so much of in the popular press. Such articles, one is so informed, although no bigger than a garden pea, can broadcast the sound of a moth breaking wind to the massed appreciation of an entire Wembley cup-tie crowd. No, old Pete’s contraption was not one of these. Here instead, you had the valve, the pink Bakelite case, and the now totally expended tungsten carbide battery.
“It’s broke,” said Old Pete. “Caput.”
“It’s what?”
“Pardon?” the elder replied. “You’ll have to speak up, my deaf aid’s gone.”
“Deaf aid’s gone. Deaf aid’s gone.” The word spread like marge on a muffin. The panic spread with it.
“Tear up the slip,” the Professor commanded, his words lost in the growing din. Pooley clutched it to his bosom as the threatened firstborn it was. Omally sought Neville’s knobkerry as the crowd turned into a
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