man who knew nothing of horses to go punting on the turf was an act of simple insanity. Nor did he suppose that the position was improved by the fact that he was about to back the fancies of an avowed humbug who, he himself believed, was at least half imbecile. Yet he never hesitated for a moment to carry out what he knew to be the folly in his brain.
The train was crowded—by that fragrant crowd which travels to a London racecourse, even in the specials. The conversation was horsey. Tips were freely offered. Mr. Major heard the chances of the animals whose names he had written on the back of an old envelope canvassed by persons who were without doubt much better judges of a horse than he. He paid not the slightest heed. All through the din of conversation Mr. Gill's words were ringing in his ears—"What a pot it will be!"
And wherever he looked he saw, as in a waking dream, a woman's face. This young man was simply mad. The most amazing nonsense was whirling in his head. Win a fortune—he'd win her. The two ideas were surging though his head in a sort of chime. He loved the woman—with a sort of honest pride he told himself how earnestly he loved her. He'd make his pile, and tell of his love. And to make his pile he had begged, and borrowed—and lied—all on the strength of an old fool's yarning.
"Would you like a tip, sir?—for the first race, sir? I'll give you a certainty, sir, for a shilling. I'd put it on myself if I had it, sir—so help me, I would."
This was the greeting which he received as he alighted from the train from an individual who evidently thought that he was green.
