Bertie turned to them, with a slight wave of his hand, to sign them away.
"Don't trouble yourselves! It's nothing you could interfere in; take care that person doesn't come into the betting ring again, that's all." The Seraph, Lord Constantia, Wentworth, and may others of his set, catching sight of the turmoil and of "Beauty," with the great square-set figure of Ben Davis pressed before him through the mob, forced their way up as quickly as they could; but before they reached the spot Cecil was sauntering back to meet them, cool and listless, and a little bored with so much exertion; his cheroot in his mouth, and his ear serenely deaf to the clamor about the ditch.
He looked apologetically at the Seraph and the others; he felt some apology was required for having so far wandered from all the canons of his Order as to have approached "a row," and run the risk of a scene.
"Turf must be cleared of these scamps, you see," he said, with a half sigh.

"Law can't do anything.

Fellow was trying to 'get on' with the young one, too.

Don't bet with those riff-raff, Berk.

The great bookmakers will make you dead money, and the little Legs will do worse to you." The boy hung his head, but looked sulky rather than thankful for his brother's interference with himself and the welsher.
"You have done the Turf a service, Beauty--a very great service; there's no doubt about that," said the Seraph.