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way from the church at St. Buttevant. It’s getting dark and we’re both thinking about roast lamb and potatoes.
Eddie pierces the silence. “Mr. O’Callaghan, my dear old friend, would you like to wager? “
Now, 1 don’t like to wager, but in the name of sport, I nod acceptance.
“What are we wagerin’ on, Eddie?” 1 ask, mystified.
Eddie heartily responds, “1 bet you two shillings that my mare can outrun that nag you’re on, from this church we’re coming up on, St. Eeger, all the way to St. Buttevant!”
Laughter follows, but I’m insulted and cold, and welcome the chance to gallop home instead of walk, as the pony club headmistress taught us to do those years ago.
“All right, Mr. Blake, state the course, and you have a wager,” I reply sourly, my blood rushing and focus sharpening through the dense fog.
“There is no course. You see, my friend, that’s the challenge. It doesn’t matter how you get from point-to-point, it only matters who gets there first,” Eddie cheerfully responds.
Before he could draw another
See History, Page 27
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