It was a Wednesday afternoon at Fealty's bar. The man himself was sat behind the counter, reading the morning's newspaper. Time had been called just over an hour ago and, with the evening opening more than two hours away, Fealty was using the time to relax.

There was a hammering at the door. Fealty grunted, and without looking up from his paper called out, "We're closed!"

Again, there was a flurry of blows against the door. "We're closed!" Fealty repeated, only louder.

The letter box clicked open and a voice called through it: "Sure it's me! Doohan! I want to talk with ye."

Fealty sighed and put down his paper. There would be no peace in the house until he answered his neighbour's summons. Taking his time, he slid back the bolts and opened the door. No sooner had he cracked the door open than a half-dozen men pushed past him and into the saloon. "Hey! You can't - !" Fealty began, but Doohan interrupted him.

"Sure we only want to listen to your wireless, man. There's a race on, and we have a sure thing going with the turf accountant. Golden Shoes in the two-thirty."

Fealty looked on helplessly as one of the men went behind the bar and turned on the radio. "Fine," said Fealty. "But no trouble, mind! I keep a respectable house." Then, making sure that no-one had seen Doohan and his friends come in, Fealty closed and locked the door.

It took a minute or so for the radio to warm up, then the taproom was filled with the announcer's voice. "The horses are ready to go. The starter has the flag ... And they're off!"

A half-dozen figures were hitched over the bar, listening intently to the commentary. Despite himself, Fealty was drawn into the atmosphere of the occasion and found himself listening just as eagerly as his visitors to the race. "They're in the final straight! Mister Magill is edging forward, ahead of Golden Shoes. Twenty yards! Ten yards! And across! It's Mister Magill by a short length, then Golden Shoes ... ."

There was a frown of disappointment from the gathering. Doohan looked at his betting slip, then threw it on the floor in disgust. "Right lads," he said. "We're off." He turned to Fealty. "And thank you, sir. Good day."

Fealty saw the men off the premises, then picked up his newspaper. There was still an hour or so before the evening rush.

The announcer's voice sounded from the radio again. "Following a stewards' enquiry, Mister Magill has been disqualified." Fealty looked up from his paper, suddenly alert. "The winner is Golden Shoes."

Fealty looked down at the floor where the discarded betting slip lay, and wondered how much it was worth.