rr.eastofealing-第15节

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　'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　favourable　sixth　in　the　six…horse　race。
　'e　on　man！'　screamed　Omally；　who　could　stand　it　no　longer；　his　outcry　breached　the　dam　and　the　floodtide　hit　the　valley　floor。
　'Go　on　my　son！　Give　him　some　stick！　The　whip；　man；　use　the　whip！　Dig　your　heels　in！　Millennium；　Millennium；　Millennium。。。　Millennium。。。'　The　voices　tumbled　one　upon　another　rising　to　a　deafening　cacophony。
　Old　Pete　snatched　up　his　hearing　aid　and　rammed　it　back　into　his　ear。　If　the　entire　pub　had　decided　to　go　off　its　head　he　felt　no　reason　why　he；　at　least；　should　be　deprived　of　the　result。
　Bob　the　bookie's　Roller　was　jammed　up　at　the　Chiswick　roundabout　but　his　Lateinos　and　Romiith　Vista　Vision　portable　television　was　working　OK。　As　Millennium　Choice　swept　past　the　post　a　clear　six　lengths　ahead　of　the　field　Antoine　calmly　drew　a　red　circle　about　a　likely　vacancy。
　Bob　looked　up　towards　the　flyover　soaring　away　into　the　distance。　I'll　have　to　sell　that；　he　thought。
　'Who　won　it？　Who　won　it？'　The　Swan's　lunchtime　crowd　engulfed　Old　Pete。　'Out　with　it。'
　The　ancient　raised　his　thumb。　'Your　round　I　think；　Jim。'
　The　crowd　erupted　and　stormed　the　bar；　Croughton　the　pot…bellied　potman　took　to　his　heels　and　fled。
　Omally　laboured　at　his　exercise　book。　'I　can't　work　it　out；'　said　he；　tearing　out　great　tufts　of　hair。　'Professor；　please？'
　The　old　man；　who　had　worked　it　out　in　his　head；　wrote　one　thousand；　two　hundred　and　thirty…seven　million；　nine　hundred　and　fifty…seven　thousand；　seven　hundred　and　seventy…six　pounds。
　'I　think　your　day　has　also　e；　John；'　he　said；　indicating　the　vacancy　behind　the　bar　counter。　Omally　thrust　his　exercise　book　in　front　of　the　golden　boy　and　shinned　over　the　counter　to　realize　his　own　lifetime's　dream。　He　was　a　natural　at　the　pumps　and　the　clawing；　snapping；　human…hydra　was　rapidly　quelled。
　'When　the　sixth　horse　goes　down　nobody　will　ever　speak　to　me　again；'　the　back…patted　Jim　told　the　Professor。　'Five　offers　of　marriage　I　have　had　already。'
　'Perk　up；'　the　scholar　replied。　'I　know　the　odds　are　unthinkable；　but　I　have　a　feeling　just　the　same。'
　Omally　stuffed　a　pint　of　Large　into　each　of　Pooley's　outstretched　hands。　'What　a　game　this；　then？'　said　he。
　'You　will　hate　me　also；'　Pooley　replied　dismally。
　'Me？'　Omally　pressed　his　hands　to　his　heart。　'But　I　love　you；　my　dearest　friend；　the　brother　I　never　had。'
　'You　have　five　brothers。'
　'None　like　you。'
　Jim　considered　his　two　pints　and　raised　both　simultaneously　to　his　lips。　It　was　the　kind　of　feat　no　man　could　be　expected　to　perform　twice　in　a　lifetime；　but　he　drained　the　two　at　a　single　draught。　'Oh　cruel　fate；'　said　he；　wiping　the　merest　drip　from　his　chin。
　'Tell　me；　Jim；'　Professor　Slobe　asked；　as　a　crowd　of　female　kissers　took　turns　at　their　hero's　cheek；　'how　did　you　do　it？　Was　it　the　product　of　pure　chance　or　through　the　study　of　form？　I　ask　out　of　professional　interest；　I　can　assure　you　that　it　will　go　no　further。'
　Jim　brushed　away　the　barmaid　from　the　New　Inn；　whose　arm　had　snaked　about　his　waist。　'If　you　really　want　to　know；　it　was　down　to　you　and　your　talk　of　numerology。　Find　the　pattern；　you　said。　Break　everything　down　to　its　numerological　equivalent；　you　said；　and　the　answer　is　yours。'
　Professor　Slobe　nodded　enthusiastically；　a　light　shone　in　his　old　face。　'Yes；　yes；'　he　cried；　'then　you　have　solved　it；　you　have　found　the　key。　Tell　me　Jim；　I　must　know。'
　'It　wasn't　all　that；'　Jim　replied。　'Get　off　there　woman；　those　are　private　places。　I　simply　followed　the　lines。'
　The　lines？　What　lines？'
　Pooley　pushed　his　racing　paper　towards　the　Professor；　'Those　boys　there；'　he　said。　'Madam；　put　those　hands　away。'
　Professor　Slobe　drew　a　quivering　finger　across　the　row　of　puter　lines；　eighteen　in　all；　three　groups　of　six。　'Oh　my　Lord；'　he　said　slowly。　'Jim；　do　you　realize　what　you've　done？'
　'Pulled　off　The　Big　One。'
　'Very　much　more　than　that。'　Professor　Slobe　thumbed　the　paper　back　to　its　front　page。　'I　knew　it。　This　is　not　your　paper。'
　'I　borrowed　it；'　said　Jim　guiltily。
　'Jim；　tear　up　the　slip。　I　am　not　joking。　You　don't　understand　what　you've　got　yourself　into。　Tear　it　up　now；　I　implore　you。'
　'Leave　it　out；'　Jim　Pooley　replied。
　'I　will　write　you　a　cheque。'　The　Professor　brought　out　his　cheque…book。　'Name　the　sum。'
　'Is　the　man　jesting？'　Pooley　turned　to　Old　Pete　who　was　banging　his　deaf　aid　on　to　the　bar　counter。
　'I've　gone　deaf　here；'　the　other　replied。
　'Jim；'　the　Professor　implored；　'listen；　please。'
　'Pete；'　said　Pooley；　'you　old　fool；　give　me　that　thing。'
　Three　o'clock　was　fast　approaching　upon　the　Guinness　clock。
　'Switch　her　on　then；'　said　somebody；　nudging　Old　Pete　upon　the　arm。
　Now；　it　must　be　fairly　stated　that　Pete's　hearing　aid　was　not　one　of　those　microchipped　miracle　appliances　one　reads　so　much　of　in　the　popular　press。　Such　articles；　one　is　so　informed；　although　no　bigger　than　a　garden　pea；　can　broadcast　the　sound　of　a　moth　breaking　wind　to　the　massed　appreciation　of　an　entire　Wembley　cup…tie　crowd。　No；　old　Pete's　contraption　was　not　one　of　these。　Here　instead；　you　had　the　valve；　the　pink　Bakelite　case；　and　the　now　totally　expended　tungsten　carbide　battery。
　'It's　broke；'　said　Old　Pete。　'Caput。'
　'It's　what？'
　'Pardon？'　the　elder　replied。　'You'll　have　to　speak　up；　my　deaf　aid's　gone。'
　'Deaf　aid's　gone。　Deaf　aid's　gone。'　The　word　spread　like　marge　on　a　muffin。　The　panic　spread　with　it。
　'Tear　up　the　slip；'　the　Professor　manded；　his　words　lost　in　the　growing　din。　Pooley　clutched　it　to　his　bosom　as　the　threatened　firstborn　it　was。　Omally　sought　Neville's　knobkerry　as　the　crowd　turned　into　a　mob　and　sought　a　beam　to　throw　a　rope　over。　It　was　lynching　time　in　Brentford。　Having　seen　active　service　in　many　a　foreign　field；　Old　Pete　was　well…prepared　to　go　down　fighting。　He　swung　his　stick　with　Ninja　fury　at　the　first　likely　skull　that　loomed　towards　him。　Friend　or　foe　wasn't　in　it。　Fists　began　to　fly。　Omally；　knobkerry　in　hand；　launched　himself　from　the　counter　into　the　middle　of　the　crowd。　'On　to　the　bookie's；　Jim；'　he　shouted　as　he　brought　down　a　dozen　rioters。
　Sheltering　his　privy　parts　and　clinging　for　dear　life　to　his　betting…slip；　Pooley；　in　the　wake　of　Professor　Slobe；　whom　no　man　present　would　have　dared　to　strike　no　matter　how　dire　the　circumstances；　edged　through　the　melee。
　'He's　getting　away；'　yelled　someone；　struggling　up　from　beneath　the　mad　Irishman。　'After　him；　lads。'
　The　crowd　swung　in　a　blurry　mass　towards　the　saloon…bar　door　through　which　Pooley　was　now　passing　with　remarkable　speed。　The　tumbling　mass　burst　out　after　him　into　the　street。　Professor　Slobe　stepped　nimbly　aside　and　took　himself　off　to　business　elsewhere。
　Leo　Felix；　who　had　been　labouring　away　with　welder's　blow…torch　in　a　vain　attempt　to　salvage　anything　of　his　defunct　tow…truck；　stared　up；　white…faced　and　dread；　as　Pooley　blundered　into　him。　'I　and　I；'　squealed　the　rattled　Rastaman；　vanishing　away　beneath　a　small　Mount　Zion　of　bowling　bodies。　Jim　was　snatched　up　by　a　dozen　flailing　hands　and　raised　shoulder…high。　The　stampede　turned　to　a　thundering　phalanx　which