"Silly question," said Jimmy, with his mouth full of _foie gras_.
"Why, to the Derby, of course. Have something to eat."
I told him that we had lunched, introduced him to Foe as the
Malefactor, and invited him to come back and dine with us at Prince's
before catching the late train for Oxford. He answered that fate
always smiled on him at these funerals, paid off his cabby, and
joined us.
Our dinner that evening was a brilliant success; and we left it to
drive to Paddington to see the boy off. He had dropped a few pounds
over the Derby but made the most of it up by a plunge on the last
race: "and what with your standing me a dinner, I'm all up on the
day's working and that cheerful I could kiss the guard." He wasn't
in the least drunk, either; but explained to me very lucidly, on my
taxing him with his real offence--cutting Oxford for a day when, the
Eights being a short week off, he should have been in strict
training--that all the strength of the B.N.C. boat that year lying on
stroke side (he rowed at "six"), one might look on a _Peche Melba_
and a Corona almost in the light of a prescription.
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