A Competent Judge of Poetry

One evening in June he found himself in the society of friends who
called him by names which, if they were not strictly original, were
certainly picturesque. One of these companions was a Mr. Webber, who
had worked more swindles with Morris than had any other partner, and
the third, and most talkative, was a gentleman named Seepidge, of
Seepidge & Soomes, printers to the trade.

Mr. Seepidge was a man of forty-five, with a well-used face. It was
one of those faces which look different from any other angle than that
from which it is originally seen. It may be said, too, that his
colouring was various. As he addressed Mr. Morris, it varied between
purple and blue. Mrs. Morris was in the habit of addressing her
husband by endearing titles. Mr. Seepidge was not addressing Mr.
Morris in a way which, by any stretch of imagination, could be
described as endearing.

"Wait a bit, Lew," pleaded Mr. Morris. "Don't let's quarrel.
Accidents will occur in the best of regulated families."

"Which you're not," said the explosive Mr. Seepidge, violently. "I
gave you two hundred to back Morning Glory in the three o'clock race.
You go down to Newbury with my money, and you come back and tell me,
after the horse has won, that you couldn't get a bookmaker to take the
bet!"

"And I give you the money back," replied Mr. Morris.

"You did," reported Mr. Seepidge meaningly, "and I was surprised to
find there wasn't a dud note in the parcel. No, Ike, you
double-crossed me. You backed the horse and took the winnings, and
come back to me with a cock-and-bull story about not being able to find
a bookmaker."