on which he had staked more than all the money he had in the world. To show what sort of sportsman this young man was one need only mention that he had not even purchased a card. He did not know which was Ladybird, he was not acquainted with the colours she carried, he did not know who her owner was, nor her jockey—as a plain statement of fact he did not know if she was running in the race at all. He saw the start, he saw the animals rush by, he did not see but he knew that the race was over. He heard the roar of voices. He turned to a man beside him—"What's won?"
"Some"—flowery—"outsider." He turned to a friend: "What is it, Jim?"
"I don't know." There was a short pause. "There's the number. Ladybird! Who the somethinged something's Ladybird?"
Mr. Major went down to Mr. Jacobs in the ring. That dignitary greeted him with a nod.
"You were in the know, Mr. Major. Mr. Blades, give Mr. Major eighteen hundred pounds. Would you like to do anything on the next race, Mr. Major?"
Mr. Major counted over his eighteen hundred pounds. Taking out an old envelope from the inner pocket of his coat, he quietly referred to something which was written on the back of it
"Gent's got it all written down, Jake," observed a ribald—and a rival—penciller.
Mr. Jacobs paid no heed to him.
"What price King Bruce for the Windsor Stakes?" inquired Mr. Major.
"Lay you ten to three, mister," yelled one gentleman.
