The Unbelievers by Alastair Sim

two whiskies and passed one to the sergeant.
    The bell rang again, and the master of ceremonies called out from the centre of the pit.
    â€œLadies and gentlemen, please place your bets for the most anticipated bout of the evening. Champion ratter ‘Tiny’, newly arrived from Aberdeen, will attempt to kill fifty brown rats, specially brought in from the countryside, within the space of five minutes. If he succeeds, his owner will be presented with this splendid silver collar. If you believe this dog – a champion at sporting arenas throughout the country – will succeed, place your bets now.”
    â€œI suppose we ought to place a bet,” said Allerdyce, “to avoid being conspicuous.”
    â€œDefinitely, sir.”
    â€œWhat do you think of the dog?”
    â€œLooks like a good prospect to me, sir.”
    They had to wait again as the crowd members pushed forward to the betting table which had been set up in the pit. Eventually Allerdyce found his way to the front.
    â€œA shilling on Tiny, please.”
    â€œA wise investment,” said the master of ceremonies, pocketing the money, “and a pleasure to welcome a new gentleman to the arena.”
    McGillivray put fourpence on the dog to win and they took their places on the bench second-nearest the front. The benches gradually filled as the crowd finished their betting. A tattooed man with a bloody apron hammered the surviving rats from the previous bout with his spade, then scooped them up into a sack with the rats the dog had killed, before spreading fresh sawdust over the blood.
    A man looking like a down-at-heel farmer stepped into the ring, holding a Jack Russell by the collar.
    â€œLadies and gentlemen,” said the master of ceremonies, “please welcome Tiny’s second, Lucy.”
    The farmer tied the Jack Russell by a short leash to a post in the centre of the pit then stepped back out again. A boy stepped in, holding a hessian sack by the neck. The sack seemed to be heaving and squirming of its own accord. The boy opened the sack and tipped the rats onto the sawdust.
    â€œHere,” said one of the soldiers, “how do we know that’s fifty rats? You could have slipped a few extra into that sack for all we know.”
    â€œThis sporting arena has always been known for honesty and probity,” said the master of ceremonies, “and if you wish to enter the ring and count them you are welcome to do so.”
    â€œAll right, just get on with it,” said the soldier.
    The rats momentarily sat dazed on the sawdust before seeing the dog tied in the middle. They scurried to the sides of the pit, climbing up on each other in little heaps which kept rearranging themselves as rats tried to climb to the top of the heap, only to be clambered over by their rivals for survival. The Jack Russell barked and strained at its leash.
    Allerdyce scanned the faces of the crowd. He’d seen the Duke’s portrait in Dalcorn House, and had a photograph of the Duke in his pocket. Every possible facial type seemed to be represented among the men sitting and shouting on the benches, clean-shaven, sideboarded or bearded; every hue from workmens’ nut-brown weatherbeatenness to the pallor of late-stage tuberculosis; every gradation from sobriety to near-paralytic drunkenness. But no-one had exactly the white hair, jowly face, and mouth twisted by permanent contempt which was apparent from the images of the missing Duke.
    The farmer now brought a brown-and-white Staffordshire bull terrier into the ring. Its tongue lolled lazily from its mouth.
    â€œLadies and gentlemen,” said the master of ceremonies, “please welcome Champion Tiny.”
    The farmer placed Tiny on the sawdust and the men stepped out of the pit. The dog sat down for a second and scratched its ear with its back paw.
    â€œGet on with it, for Jesus’ sake,” shouted the soldier. “I’ve got a guinea on you!”
    The Jack