When he reached the course he made straight for the ring, and for a "leviathan penciller," whom, strangely enough, he knew by sight as well as by name. No welsher for him.
"What price Ladybird for the Blenheim Plate?"
He had never made a bet in his life before, but he had a sort of dim idea that when you did bet that was the way to set about it
"Lay you three to one."
"Put me on four hundred pounds."
Over a hundred pounds of that four hundred were his own savings, for he was beginning to keep his head above water in the artistic world; but how he got the rest of it—it was a sorry tale.
"Lay you seven to two, sir," interposed a lay-you-the-odds gentleman close by.
"I'll lay you seven to two," observed the leviathan calmly. "What name, sir? Mr. Blades, give the gentleman his ticket"
The four hundred pounds were handed over. Mr. Major received in exchange a slip of pasteboard. Someone spoke to him as he turned away, this time not a betting man; someone who had apparently been looking on.
"Jacobs has done you over that bet of yours. He has given you nothing like the proper odds. Anyone, including himself, would have given you five to one."
Mr. Major said nothing, not even to thank the speaker for the information. He took up a position to view the race. It was a fine day. Although it was probable that a crowd would come, it had not come yet. He had no difficulty in finding a favourable point of vantage from which to view the race
