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 myself since the races were given up, and I've seen these tickets carefully framed and hung over mantelpieces—oh, yes!"

Spargo caught at a notion.

"How do you get to Market Milcaster?" he asked.

"Paddington," replied Crowfoot. "It's a goodish way."

"I wonder," said Spargo, "if there's any old sporting man there who could remember—things. Anything about this ticket, for instance?"

"Old sporting man!" exclaimed Crowfoot. "Egad!—but no, he must be dead—anyhow, if he isn't dead, he must be a veritable patriarch. Old Ben Quarterpage, he was an auctioneer in the town, and a rare sportsman."

"I may go down there," said Spargo. "I'll see if he's alive."

"Then, if you do go down," suggested Crowfoot, "go to the old 'Yellow Dragon' in the High Street, a fine old place. Quarterpage's place of business and his private house were exactly opposite the 'Dragon.' But I'm afraid you'll find him dead—it's five and twenty years since I was in Market Milcaster, and he was an old bird then. Let's see, now. If Old Ben Quarterpage is alive, Spargo, he'll be ninety years of age!"

"Well, I've known men of ninety who were spry enough, even in my bit of experience," said Spargo. "I know one—now—my own grandfather. Well, the best of thanks, Crowfoot, and I'll tell you all about it some day."

"Have another drink?" suggested Crowfoot.

But Spargo excused himself. He was going back to