There was a tone of command in his voice. It
was evidently he who was the master of ceremonies.
"I've seen that chap at the National Sporting," said Traill, quickly.
"I guessed there must be some system about this. You see, he's going
to act as timekeeper and referee."
"Come on," exclaimed the man referred to. "I ain't goin' to wait 'ere
the 'ole bloomin' night. Get a move on for Gawd's sake. If you ain't
made all yer bets, yer'll 'ave ter do it after the show's begun. Come
on an' bloody-well shake 'ands and start."
Even when that word was uttered, loathsome enough in itself for a
woman's ears, yet indicative of many worse that were to come, Traill
did not think of Sally. She glanced at him when she had heard it,
remembering what he had once said to her--"I belong to the National
Sporting--because there's a beast in every man--thank God!"
The two combatants sifted their way out of the little crowds. They
came slowly towards each other, rubbing their bare arms to encourage
the circulation. Neither the one nor the other seemed anxious for
what was to come. Sally looked tremblingly at their faces and
shuddered. One of them was clean-shaven, the other wore a moustache.
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