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Omally led the way and the three men entered the bar。 Pooley； who with Old Pete's aid had long ago finished the bottle of Neville's reserve； rose unsteadily to greet them。 Omally eyed him with great suspicion。 'Have you seen Soap this morning？' he asked。
Pooley shook his head。 'You've missed all the excitement。'
'Obviously。 Whose round is it？'
'I'll get these；' said Professor Slobe。 'Holmes？'
'A small sherry；' the detective replied。 'And a small word with Mr Pooley here。'
'Oh yes？' asked the half…drunken Jim。
'The fellow with the beard serving behind the bar is not； I believe； the regular barman。'
Pooley squinted disgustedly towards Croughton the pot…bellied potman； who was now up to his elbows in froth behind the beer engines。 'Certainly not；' said he。
'And the regular barman； a gentleman of some standing in this munity； he is not one who would leave the bar during a lunchtime session without a very good reason？'
'Not Neville。'
'So I would be right then in assuming that the fat gentleman who was until recently stuck fast in the cellar doors was this very Neville？'
'You what？' said John Omally。 'What happened here； Jim？'
'I'll do my best to explain；' said Pooley； tumbling backwards from his bar stool。 'But for now I think I need to go to the toilet。'
It was quite some time before Pooley re…emerged looking a little more sober。 During the period of his absence Holmes had gleaned all the necessary information from other sources； finished his sherry； and had taken himself off to places elsewhere。 Jim relocated his behind upon the bar stool。 Looking up at the battered Guinness clock he asked； 'Anybody know what won the one forty…five？'
'Ahriman Boy；' said Old Pete。 'I get Free Radio Brentford on my deaf aid。 The mentator was having a coronary by the sound of it。'
Pooley struggled a moment to prehend this intelligence。 Slowly he withdrew his betting…slip and peered between his fingers at his selection。 'By the gods；' said he。 'Did you hear the SP？'
'Sixty…six to one；' Old Pete replied。 'A quid or two there for the outside better。'
Pooley spread his betting…slip before him on the bar counter； 'I am sixty…six quid in the black；' said he。
Omally peered over his shoulder。 'Then order me a pint of froth quickly then； Jimmy boy；' said he。 'I suppose there is no chance that was your only bet of the afternoon？'
'Actually； no；' said Jim。 'I have an accumulator here。'
'A four…horse Yankee？'
'No； a six…horse Super…Yankee。'
'I'll get my own in then。'
'Nobody has any faith in me whatever；' Jim told Professor Slobe。
'No？' the old man shook his head in wonder。 'Then let me at least get you another drink in。 Are you feeling a little better now？'
'A temporary lapse；' said Jim。 'Your man from below puts the wind up me more than a little。'
'The two o'clock's on；' said Old Pete。 'Got one in here； Jim？'
Pooley nodded。 'Lucifer Lad。'
'Want to listen？' Old Pete took out his deaf aid and turned up the volume。 The Mickey Mouse voice of the mentator tinkled out the race as three men； at least； knotted their fists and offered up with small sounds of encouragement for the game outsider。 Lucifer Lad romped home at sixty…six to one。
'My brain's gone；' said Pooley。 'Can anybody work it out？'
'You don't want to think about it； Jim；' said the Professor。 'Let us just say that it is a goodly sum。'
'How goodly； tell me。'
'Four thousand； three hundred and fifty…six pounds。'
They brought Jim round with the contents of the soda siphon。
'Jim；' said John； drawing him up by the lapels； 'now wake up。 What kind of deal have you done with Bob？'
'The six…horse special as ever；' mumbled Pooley。 'Six winners or nothing。'
'You buffoon。' Omally threw up his hands； 'If you'd had another winner you'd get a percentage even with a couple more seconds or thirds。 You'd be a thousand pounds in profit now。 There is no such thing as a six…horse Super…Yankee； such things are myths。 An ITV…seven there is； that bookies laugh at as they fly off to their holidays in the Seychelles。 Give me that slip。' Pooley pushed it across the counter。 'Anybody got a paper？' Pooley brought his out。 'Did you pay the tax？' Pooley nodded。 'You bloody buffoon。'
'Tell me again how rich I am；' said Jim。 'Just so I can hear it。' Omally dollied it out on his fingers。 By the time he had finished Old Pete said； 'The two…fifteen's on。'
Bob the Bookie was enjoying a most unpleasant lunch at The Bonny Pit Lad in Chiswick。 The tenant of this dire establishment； who； as the result of some major brainstorm； had convinced himself that 'Mining Pubs' were going to be the next big thing； had borrowed a considerable sum from Bob to transform the place from a late Victorian money…spinner to a coalface catastrophe。 The pit…props and stuffed ponies； the stark wooden benches and coal…dust floor had proved strangely uninviting to the Chiswick drinking fraternity。 Even in those winter months； when lit by the cosy glow of Davy Lamps； there was at least a good fire burning in the hearth。
Bob the bookie had； of course； extended the tenant's credit to the point that he now owned the controlling interest in the place。 The plans for the luxury steak…house it was shortly to bee were already drawn up and in his safe。 As he sat alone in the deserted bar devouring his 'snap'； Bob pondered upon what far…flung tropical beach he might park his million…dollar bum at the weekend。
Antoine the Chauffeur entered the bar in a flash of white livery； bearing upon a silver platter the puter print…out of the latest racing update just received through the Lateinos and Romiith in…car teleprinter。 The telexed message that Jim Pooley； through merit of his win in the two…fifteen was now two hundred and eighty…four thousand； one hundred and ninety…six pounds up put the definite kibosh on the apple crumble end of Bob's Cornish pasty。
'You bloody buffoon；' went John Omally。 'You'd be rich； you bloody big buffoon。'
'It hasn't changed me；' said Jim。 'I'm still your friend。 Lend me a pound and I'll get them in。'
'Are we all aboard for the two…thirty？' asked Old Pete。 'What is your selection； Jim？'
'Seven Seals。' Pooley checked his slip。
'Sixty…six to one；' said Old Pete。
Omally pressed his hands to his temples。 'I just knew he was going to say that；' he groaned。
Exactly how Seven Seals； who had been running a very poor eighteenth； actually managed to catch up and overtake the favourite in the last six furlongs was a matter for experts in that particular field to ponder upon for many moons yet to e。
'You are definitely ahead now；' said John Omally。 'I make that eighteen million； seven hundred and fifty…six thousand； nine hundred and thirty…six pounds at the very last。 A tidy sum I would call that。'
'Lend me another quid；' Pooley pleaded。 'I think I'd like to buy a cigar。'
As he steered Bob the bookie's Roller through the crush of lunchtime traffic in the Chiswick High Road； Antoine the Chauffeur leafed through the 'Situations Vacant' column of the Brentford Mercury。 Bob sat quivering in the back； shaking from head to toe； his knuckles jammed into his mouth。 The in…car teleprinter punched out the runners for the two forty…five。 There it was； Millennium Choice at sixty…six to one； and the runners ing under starter's orders。 Bob punched away at his golden calculator but the thing merely rang up 'No Sale' and switched itself off in disgust。
'Do I get any redundancy money？' Antoine enquired politely。
'They're off；' bawled Old Pete。
The Swan's crowd knotted its fists and shook them in time to Mickey's little voice。 Cries of encouragement were obviously out of the question； as to hear anything of the race required a great deal of breath…holding and ear…straining； but the patrons went about this with a will。 Their faces like so many gargoyles； veins straining upon temples； and sweat trickling through the Brylcreemed forelocks。 They took up the universal stance of punters； legs apart and knees slightly bent； bums protruding； and chins to the fore。 They were phantom jockeys to a man； riding upon the mentator's every word。 Nerves were cranking themselves into the red sector。
Millennium Choice was laying a not altogether favourab