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It was beer all round in the pavilion afterwards, with all manner of congratulations - Felix shook my hand again, ducking his head in that shy way of his, and Mynn asked was I to be home next year, for if the Army didn't find a use for me, he could, in the casual side which he would get together for the Grand Cricket Week at Canterbury. This was flattery on the grand scale, but I'm not sure that the sincerest tribute I got wasn't Fuller Pilch's knitted brows and steady glare as he sat on a bench with his tankard, looking me up and down for a full two minutes and never saying a word.

Even the doddering Duke came up to compliment me and say that my style reminded him absolutely of his own —"Did I not remark it to you, my dear?" says he to his languid tart, who was fidgeting with her parasol and stifling a yawn while showing me her handsome profile and weighing me out of the corner of her eye. "Did I not observe that Mr Flashman's shooter was just like the one I bowled out Beauclerk with at Maidstone in '06? - directed to his off stump, sir, caught him goin' back, you understand pitched just short, broke and shot, middle stump, bowled all over his wicket - ha! ha! what?"

I had to steady the old fool before he tumbled over demonstrating his action, and his houri, assisting, took the opportunity to rub a plump arm against me. "No doubt we shall have the pleasure of seeing you at Canterbury next summer, Mr Flashman," she murmurs, and the old pantaloon cries aye, aye, capital notion, as she helped him away; I made a note to look her up then, since she'd probably have killed him in the course of the winter.

It wasn't till I was towelling myself in the bathhouse, and getting outside a brandy punch, that I realized I hadn't seen Elspeth since the match ended, which was odd, since she'd hardly miss a chance to bask in my reflected glory. I dressed and looked about; no sign of her among the thinning crowd, or outside the pavilion, or at the ladies' tea tables, or at our carriage; coachee hadn't seen her either. There was a fairish throng outside the pub, but she'd hardly be there, and then someone plucked my sleeve, and I turned to find a large, beery-faced individual with black button eyes at my elbow.

"Mr Flashman, sir, best respex," says he, and tapped his low-crown hat with his cudgel. "You'll forgive the liberty, I'm sure - Tighe's the monicker, Daedalus Tighe, ev'yone knows me, agent an' accountant to the gentry—" and he pushed a card in my direction between sweaty fingers. "Takin' the hoppor-toonity, my dear sir an' sportsman, of presentin' my compliments an' best vishes, an'—"

"Thank'ee," says I, "but I've no bets to place."

"My dear sir!" says he, beaming. "The werry last idea!" And he invited his cronies, a seedy-flash bunch, to bear him witness. "My makin' so bold, dear sir, was to inwite you to share my good fortun', seein' as 'ow you've con-tribooted so 'andsome to same - namely, an' first, by partakin' o' some o' this 'ere French jam-pain - poodle's piss to some, but as drunk in the .bes' hestablishments by the werriest swells such as - your good self, sir. Wincent," says he, "pour a glass for the gallant—"

"Another time," says I, giving him my shoulder, but the brute had the effrontery to catch my arm.

" 'Old on, sir!" cries he. " 'Arf a mo', that's on'y the sociable pree-liminary. I'm vishful to present to your noble self the—"

"Go to the devil!" snaps I. He stank of brandy.

"—sum of fifty jemmy o' goblins, as an earnest o' my profound gratitood an' respeck. Wincent!"

And damned if the weasel at his elbow wasn't thrusting a glass of champagne at me with one hand and a fistful of bills in the other. I stopped short, staring.

"What the deuce … ?"

"A triflin' token of my hes-teem," says Tighe. He swayed a little, leering at me, and for all the reek of booze, the flash cut of his coat, the watch-chain over his flowery silk vest, and the gaudy bloom in his lapel - the marks of the vulgar sport, in fact - the little eyes in his fat cheeks were as hard as coals. "You vun it for me, my dear sir - an' plenty to spare, damme. Didn't 'e, though?" His confederates, crowding round, chortled and raised their glasses. "By the sweat - yore pardon, sir - by the peerspyration o' yore brow - an' that good right arm, vot sent back Felix, Pilch, 'an Alfred Mynn in three deliveries, sir. Look 'ere," and he snapped a finger to Vincent, who dropped the glass to whip open a leather satchel at his waist - it was stuffed with notes and coin.

"You, sir, earned that. You did, though. Ven you put avay Fuller Pilch - an', veren't that a 'andsome catch, now? - I sez to Fat Bob Napper, vot reckons e's king o' the odds an' evens - `Napper,' sez I, `that's a'ead bowler, that is. Vot d'ye give me 'e don't put out Mynn, first ball?' `Gammon,' sez 'e. `Three in a row - never! Thahsand to one, an' you can pay me now.' Generous odds, sir, you'll allow." And the rascal winked and tapped his nose. "So - hon goes my quid - an' 'ere's Napper's thahsand, cash dahn, give 'im that - an' fifty on it's yore's, my gallant sir, vith the grateful compliments of Daedalus Tighe, Hesk-wire, agent an' accountant to the gentry, 'oo 'ereby salutes"— and he raised his glass and belched unsteadily —"yore 'onner's pardon, bugger them pickles - 'oo salutes the most wicious right harm in the noble game o' cricket today! Hip-hip-hip - hooray! '

I couldn't help being amused at the brute, and his pack of rascals - drunken bookies and touts on the spree, and too far gone to appreciate their own impudence.

"My thanks for the thought, Mr Tighe," says I, for it don't harm to be civil to a bookie, and I was feeling easy, "you may drink my health with it." And I pushed firmly past him, at which he staggered and sat down heavily in a froth of cheap champagne, while his pals hooted and weaved in to help him. Not that I couldn't have used the fifty quid, but you can't be seen associating with cads of that kidney, much less accepting their gelt. I strode on, with cries of "Good luck, sir!" and "Here's to the Flash cove!" following me. I was still grinning as I resumed my search for Elspeth, but as I turned into the archery range for a look there, the smile was wiped off my lips - for there were only two people in the long alley between the hedges: the tall figure of a man, and Elspeth in his arms.

I came to a dead halt, silent - for three reasons. First, I was astonished. Secondly, he was a big, vigorous brute, by what I could see of him - which was a massive pair of shoulders in a handsomely-cut broadcloth (no expense spared there), and thirdly, it passed quickly through my mind that Elspeth, apart from being my wife, was also my source of supply. Food for thought, you see, but before I had even an instant to taste it, they both turned their heads and I saw that Elspeth was in the act of stringing a shaft to a ladies' bow - giggling and making a most appealing hash of it - while her escort, standing close in behind her, was guiding her hands, which of course necessitated putting his arms about her, with her head against his shoulder.