V.
THE TIPSTER
AN IMPOSSIBLE STORY
I.
"I'VE done it again! This is really rum!"
Mr. Gill tilted his hat towards the back of his head. Philip Major had come upon him in the Strand, standing in the middle of the pavement, staring at the fifth edition of the Evening Glimmer.
"That's what it is—rum! I can't help thinking, you know, that there must be something wrong."
"What's the matter?"
"Well," Mr. Gill put his hand up to his mouth: he coughed. "I've placed the first three horses for the Chichester Handicap. Here they are, large as life." Mr. Gill pointed to a paragraph in the paper. "Mary Anne, 1; The Duke, 2; and Coriolanus, 3; just as I sent 'em to my clients!"
Mr. Major laughed.
"That's all right. I thought that you professed to send three winners, for seven-and-sixpence, isn't it?"
"But you don't understand. Yesterday I done the same. I placed the first three in the Billingsgate Stakes; sent 'em to every one of my correspondents, I did, upon my Dick! Why, Mr. Major, I've been a tipster—ah, I don't know how many years—and as for placing the first three, even at a donkey race, why, I haven't come within a million mile of 'em." Mr. Gill glanced round. There was something curious in his glance. "But it isn't only horses. There's something up with me all round. Why"
He caught Mr. Major by the arm. They were by the pit entrance to the Lyceum Theatre. A hansom went rushing by.
"There's an old gentleman with a white hat crossing Wellington Street—that cab will knock him down!"
The cab whirled round the corner. An instant after there was a sudden tumult—someone had been run over. Mr. Major stared at Mr. Gill.
"I say, Gill!"
"I've been like that for the last day or two, but this afternoon I'm worse than ever. I keep seeing things."
"Excuse me, sir." Mr. Gill stopped and addressed a passer-by. "Your wife's just going to slip down the steps which lead to the nursery landing; and as she's in a delicate situation, if I was you I'd hurry home."
The passenger, a dignified-looking gentleman about forty years of age, appeared to be, not unnaturally, surprised at being addressed in such a manner by a perfect stranger.
"Who are you?"
"My name's Gill, sir—Thompson Gill. As your wife's going to be prematurely overtaken, all owing to a piece of soap which that there careless gal of yours has left upon the stairs, I thought you'd like me to mention it"
"Gill," observed Mr. Major, as they crossed the road towards Waterloo Bridge, "you're drunk."
"Not me. I haven't had so much as a drop this day. It's something wrong with the works, that's what it is. I keep seeing visions, or something. If I'd been a drinker I should say I'd got 'em. But it isn't that, I know."
"Perhaps you're going to be a prophet after all—not three winners for seven-and-six, but the bona fide article."
"That's what I'm afraid of," sighed Mr. Gill.
When they reached the centre of the bridge Mr. Major drew Mr. Gill aside into one of the embrasures.
"Come, Gill, I'll give you a chance to exercise your prophetic gifts. Am I going to sell that picture of mine which the President and Fellows have done me the honour to sky in their exhibition at Burlington House?"
Mr. Major asked the question lightly—but there was a suspicion of earnestness beneath the lightness. Mr. Gill paused before replying. His eyes looked out over the stream.
"Yes, you are."
"Oh, I am, am I? When?"
"Next week."
"So soon as that, my Gill! Come, we're getting on. And who will be the purchaser?"
"A gal."
"A gal!" Mr. Major started. "I presume by that you mean a young lady?"
"A dark gal, with big black eyes, and black hair curling all over her head. She'll go up to the picture and she'll say, 'So this is it, is it? They've hung it as well as it deserves. So this is the man who presumes to teach me painting? He can draw, but he will never paint—never.' Then she will look at the picture again, and she'll say, 'What a fool I am!' Then she'll go to a table, and she'll ask how much the picture is. And the man will say, 'Fifty pounds!' And she'll say to herself, 'That's more than the frame is worth.' Then she'll take out a sort of pocket-book, and she'll hand over five ten-pound notes. And the man'll say, 'What name?' And she'll say 'Briggs.'"
At this point Mr. Major started again—this time most perceptibly.
"What name?"
"She'll say 'Briggs.'"
"Its a lie!"
"It's not a lie. She'll say 'Briggs.' And to herself she'll say, 'I'm not going to flatter him by letting him know I've bought it. He's fool enough already.'"
Mr. Gill paused. Mr. Major stared at him. The little man had spoken with a quiet intensity which, in its way, was most effective. All the time he had kept his eyes fixed upon the stream.
"Anything more, Mr. Gill?"
"About the picture?"
"About the picture. Can you tell me, for instance, whether the name of the lady who is destined to become, in so flattering a way, my patron, really is Briggs?"
"Wait a moment. When she goes away she'll tell the cab-driver to drive to Campden Hill Gardens." Again Mr. Major started. "When she gets home she'll have a letter addressed to"—Mr. Gill hesitated—"to Miss Davidson."
"Oh! To Miss Davidson."
Mr. Major's voice was a trifle husky.
"The handwriting on the envelope will be very fine and small. The postmark will be Oban."
Mr. Major caught Mr. Gill by the shoulder.
"Gill!—stop! That will do! Come, let's get home. Gill, I should say that you were going off your nut."
"I don't know about going off my nut exactly, but there's something wrong with the works, I do believe."
"You don't suppose that I believe a syllable of all that nonsense you've been talking?"
"It's gospel truth, every word of it."
When they had gone a few steps further Mr. Gill stopped short
"Mr. Major, there's a man coming along the road, in a brown check coat, who's going to pay you half a sovereign which he owes you."
As a matter of fact, when they had proceeded about a hundred yards along the Waterloo Road they were approached by a man in a brown check coat, which was decidedly the worse for wear, who, at sight of them, pulled up.
"Hollo, Major! The very man I wanted to see. I think that makes us straight."
He thrust his hand into his waistcoat pocket. In the outstretched palm which he held out to Mr. Major was—half a sovereign! That gentleman stared at the man, and at the coin, in undisguised amazement.
"Hollo, Aldridge!"
"Rather unexpected, isn't it? I thought it would be—borrowed money back from me! Don't apologise, old chap! I've had a stroke of luck—so there you are!"
Mr. Major continued to stare at the coin after the man had gone.
"I say, Gill, this is very queer."
"That's what bothers me. It is uncommon queer."
II.
It was the Tuesday morning afterwards. Mr. Major was at the house in Campden Hill Gardens in the capacity of painting-master. Towards the close of the lesson he asked his pupil a question.
"Have you been to the Academy yet?"
Miss Davidson was in the enjoyment of her own fortune. It may therefore be taken for granted that she was of age. But she was more than that; she was in touch with those teachings of the age which tells us that a young woman can do without a chaperon. Her painting lessons were, as a rule, sacred to herself and her master—which, perhaps, enabled her to better concentrate her mind upon her searchings after art.
"Not yet I suppose I ought to have gone, but I really seem to have so much else to do."
Mr. Major said nothing. Perhaps he felt that even the most earnest searcher after art might be excused from attending that Academy. Anyhow, that afternoon he himself was there. It was not his first visit by any means. He could have pointed out blindfold where all the most notorious pictures were. The position of one especial canvas he knew particularly well. It was in a far corner of the room, in a bad light, just above the line—exactly the position in which an indifferent work by an unknown man would be most likely to escape the casual visitor's eye. Mr. Major felt this very strongly as he approached that corner. The rooms were crowded—though not, on that occasion, overcrowded—but just there there was not a soul. Apparently his picture was not attracting the least attention—nothing is more unsatisfactory to a struggling artist than to be aware of that. He advanced towards the slighted work of art with an uncomfortable feeling about the pit of his stomach. Suddenly he started. He hurried forward. The frame was starred!
"By Jove!" he exclaimed out loud. "Gill was right; it's sold."
In his surprise he was unconscious of the fact that he was staring at the frame as though he were paralysed by the merits of the painting. But others saw him. More people came to stare. Then he enjoyed that rarest of all rare pleasures—the pleasure which the gentleman enjoyed in Lord Lytton's novel, The Disowned—the pleasure of hearing his work criticised with perfect frankness.
A gentleman made an observation to a lady who was evidently his wife. "Don't care for that kind of thing," he said.
"I think it's silly," she replied.
They moved on. A gentleman—obviously a country gentleman—stared at the picture for, perhaps, two seconds.
"What's it all about?" he inquired of a friend.
"Don't ask me. Some stuff or other."
And they moved on. Then two parsons commented, as they went by. One of them was a dictatorial sort of person. He pointed out the picture with his umbrella.
"If I wanted an example to point the remark that I was just making, there is one. I say that art in England must be at a low ebb indeed when they're obliged to admit that sort of thing."
"The colouring's not bad," ventured his companion, who did not appear to be quite so critical.
"Colouring! Pooh! Properly speaking, there is no colouring—that is, if you mean colour."
"Shows some idea of drawing."
"Drawing! After that, my good fellow, we'd better go and look at something else—say a Punch and Judy."
"Mr. Major."
As the two parsons were moving off—possibly in search of that Punch and Judy—the lucky artist, who seemed to have so hit the popular fancy, heard himself addressed by name. Turning, there was Miss Davidson, Mr. Major was momentarily confounded.
"Where is your picture, Mr. Major?"
"Here is my daub."
"Daub?" The pupil seemed surprised. The master's manner was certainly ferocious. "Why do you call it a daub?"
"I only call it what other people call it, and some fool or other has bought it!"
"Mr. Major!" Miss Davidson drew herself back with distinct frigidity. Her naturally pale face, if possible, grew paler. Mr. Major immediately perceived how grossly he had blundered.
"Forgive me, Miss Davidson. I mean that some good friend, with whom charity is esteemed a virtue, has been generous to me."
"But why should you suppose anything of the kind? Why should you suppose that a person would buy a picture he did not like, and for more than it is worth?"
"Why, Miss Davidson, ah, why?" He stood leaning on the hand-rail, his eyes on her. Her eyes she kept upon the catalogue. "It sounds ridiculous; but do you know that I am acquainted with a person who thinks himself a prophet, and he told me that this week someone would buy my picture."
"He need not be a prophet to have told you that." Lifting her eyes she looked him full in the face. "Hadn't we better be moving? Someone else may wish to look at the picture as well as we." She smiled as she said this. He flushed. "But what made you say so bitterly just now that your picture was a daub?"
"I had been the unintentional listener of the public verdict. Besides"—he flung back his head with a petulant gesture—"do I not know myself that it is a daub! Do I not know what I meant it to be, and what it is! Do I not know how far it falls short of what I dreamed!"
She was silent for a moment Then she asked a question.
"I have more than once wanted to ask you, 'Do you think there is nothing worth living for but art?'"
"Indeed, I don't."
"I thought you didn't."
There was a dryness in her tone which stung him, especially after the glance with which his words had been pointed. He spoke coldly.
"There is only one thing better."
"Frankly, I am not quite sure what is my own mind upon the matter. There is so much talked about that sort of thing. But really I doubt if there is anything better worth living for than art."
"For a man there is a woman."
"You mean, I suppose, that for a man there are women."
"Miss Davidson! Don't say that." He put his hand upon her arm. His face was eager and flushed. "That, if you like, is the cant of the day. There is only one woman for a man."
She laughed.
"Suppose I put the converse, and say that for a woman there are men."
"Miss Davidson! That is not true!"
She laughed again, this time a little nervously.
"Don't let us stand in the middle of the room. Pray let us keep moving on."
Just then some acquaintances came up—acquaintances of hers, but not of his. He left her with them. He wandered off into the sculpture gallery, which, so far as the general and appreciative public were concerned, he found, as usual, a howling wilderness.
"I wonder what I could do to win her love?"
This was the question which that young man addressed to himself among those lonely statues.
"I wonder if it could be won? By me? If it is won already?"
As this last thought occurred to him he actually trembled, which showed that, as a young man, he was something out of the common.
"One thing is necessary, that I should not come to her a pauper. I don't want the tale of the Lord of Burleigh told in just one more new edition. I wonder if I could do something to make money?"
Mr. Philip Major had the first-floor apartments in a house in Stamford Street Mr. Thompson Gill had the ground-floor rooms. Thus chance, or necessity, had made the tipster and the artist acquainted.
That night Mr. Major entered Mr. Gill's sitting-room, an uninvited guest
"Well, Gill, old man, been doing anything more in the prophetic line?"
Mr. Gill, his hands in his trouser-pockets, was seated, staring into vacancy.
"Mr. Major"—he got up; with a mysterious air he approached his visitor—"I do believe there's something wrong."
"How wrong? Has the prophetic tap run dry?"
"I tell you straight, I wish it had run dry. It's quite upsetting me, that's what it's doing. What do you think of the Exmouth Stakes?"
"What about the Exmouth Stakes?"
"I placed the first three horses; that's what's about it, and I sent 'em to all my correspondents—I'm making all their fortunes. I am, straight. Why, you know, I'm a tipster; that's what I am, and I ain't ashamed to own it. But though I've been a tipster, I don't know how many years, I mention it to you in confidence that I don't know no more about horses than you do—perhaps not so much. The way I do in general's this. I take the list of probable starters, and I send one horse to one cove, and the second horse to another cove, and so on right through the whole boiling. So somehow, you see, I'm bound to strike the winner, and I don't forget to mention it! But of late I've been upsetting all my regular arrangements. Only the other day I sat down to sort out the bag of tricks as usual, but, if you'll believe me, I couldn't do it. Do you think I could send every man a different animal? Not me! I sent the same animal to all the lot of 'em; and the queerest part of it is, the beggar won!
"When I see that in the evening paper, I tell you I did feel funny. When, the next day, I began dealing them round again, I couldn't do it no more than before. I sent the first three horses to every half-a-crown subscriber, and they romped in just exactly as I'd placed 'em. That was on Friday, in the Billingsgate Stakes; on Saturday, when I saw you in the Strand, I'd just done the same in the Chichester Handicap. Yesterday was Monday, and there wasn't no racing; but to-day in the Exmouth Stakes I've placed the first three horses in the exact order that they came past the post. What do you think of that for a record? Wouldn't you say that there was something wrong with the works?"
"It does you great credit, Gill."
"It isn't so much the horses, I shouldn't mind if it was only them, but it's everything. I can't think of what has happened, but everything that's going to happen I can see quite well."
"Are you in earnest?"
"Try me and see! If there's anything you want to know about what's going to happen in the middle of next week, apply here for information. It's awful—I'm getting a regular freak of nature."
"Do you know, if what you say is correct, you could easily make your fortune—and mine?"
"I suppose I could."
"If, for instance, you were to act on your own tips."
"Just so."
"Then why don't you?"
"I'll tell you one reason why I don't—because I can see what's coming."
"But if you can, that's exactly the reason why you should."
"There's one thing coming to-morrow, and that's an end of me."
"What do you mean?"
"By this time to-morrow I'll be dead."
"You're carrying it too far, my friend."
"I am carrying it too far—I feel I am! I know I am! That's where it is! I don't only see the things I want to see, but I see the things I don't want to see; and I see that by this time to-morrow I'll be dead—ah, dead, sitting in that chair."
Mr. Gill pointed to the chair from which he had lately risen. Mr. Major eyed him. There certainly was something curious about the little man, although he spoke with a matter-of-fact straightforwardness which deprived his words of half their singularity.
"Don't be an ass, Gill! Perhaps you can tell me what, by this time to-morrow night, will have happened to me?"
"You! You'll have made your fortune."
Mr. Major laughed at this.
"Thanks awfully. Perhaps you can assist me with a tip or two?"
"That's just what I'm going to do. I'm going to give you all to-morrow's winners. You'll go down. You'll take every farthing you can beg, borrow, or steal. You'll put the whole pile on the first race at starting prices. You'll put the whole pile on again, with all your winnings, on the second race; and you'll do the same on every race; and at the end of the day you'll have won—ah, what a pot!"
"Yes, what a pot! But suppose, in this going the whole hog system of yours, once, only once, I should happen to lose? Where shall I be then?"
"You won't lose; you will win. Take a piece of paper and write down the names of the winners."
Smilingly, perching himself on the edge of the table, Mr. Major took an envelope out of his pocket He prepared to write upon the back of it "Now then, my Gill."
Mr. Gill took a newspaper from the table. For a moment he studied it attentively.
"It's a long programme to-morrow. There are seven events upon the card The first is at half-past one; mind you're there. The Blenheim Plate—Ladybird will win that; write it down." Mr. Major wrote it down, still smiling. "The Windsor Stakes—King Bruce. The Maiden Plate—Sweet Violet. The Churchill Handicap— Devil's Own. The Visitors' Plate—Estrella. The Hunt Cup—Ballet Girl." Mr. Gill folded up the newspaper. "Got 'em all down? No mistakes, you know. That's six races—that'll be enough for you; you'll have made your pot by then—and what a pot it will be!" Mr. Major, as he echoed the other's words, still smiled "Yes, what a pot it will be!"
III.
"Yes, what a pot it will be!"
The words were still ringing in Mr. Major's ears when, on the morrow, he went down by train to that suburban racecourse. He had not carried out Mr. Gill's advice to the bitter end; he had not stolen, but he had begged and borrowed. He had applied for help in as many quarters as he could manage in the limited time at his disposal. He had told some tall tales to get it too. He had pledged his credit to the straining-point. He had in his pockets a sum of money which for him was fabulous. If he lost it he would be without a farthing in the world, almost without the hope of one.
He was quite aware that he was mad, that was the joke of it. No one knew better than he that for a 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.
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 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.
"Lay you eleven to three," bawled another.
Indeed, there was quite a chorus of offers. Mr. Major was indifferent to all of them.
"What price will you give me, Jacobs?"
"King Bruce?" The leviathan regarded Mr. Major with a curious glance. "Well, Mr. Major, I'll give you eleven to three."
"Put me on eighteen hundred pounds."
There was a slight pause of astonishment.
"Who is he?" Mr. Major heard someone behind him ask.
"Another Juggins!"
The response was at least as audible as the inquiry had been. There was a laugh. Even Mr. Jacobs seemed amused.
"Eighteen hundred pounds, eleven to three, King Bruce, Mr. Major. Give Mr. Major his ticket, Mr. Blades."
"Look out, Jacobs," shouted a voice, "the young gent means having you."
There was another laugh at this. Mr. Major, serenely indifferent, walked away with Mr. Jacobs' ticket in his pocket
"Kyard, sir! Krect kyard, sir."
Someone thrust something beneath his nose. Then, for the first time, Mr. Major became conscious that he was without that convenience—especially for a novice—a programme of the day. He purchased a card. He found that for the Windsor Stakes there were five runners. King Bruce's colours were light blue. He picked them out when the horses were making ready for starting. As the animals tore past it seemed to him that the one with the light blue jockey on his back was bringing up the rear. It continued in the rear during the few moments in which the proceedings were in sight. Suddenly there arose a tumult of many voices.
"By ! He's won!"
The race was over. A man at his side, who had been following it through a pair of glasses, lowered them with a full-mouthed execration.
"Who's won?"
"King Bruce!"
Mr. Major was conscious of a little fluttering in the region of his chest, as though a pulse had all at once been set vibrating. The people were rushing off in all directions. For a moment he stood still. He studied an old envelope which he took from his pocket. Then he started for the ring. Mr. Jacobs received him effusively.
"You are in luck, Mr. Major. You must have had some private information. I shall hardly like to bet with you. How much is it, Mr. Major? Mind you let me down easy." The artist handed in his "brief." "What do you make it, Mr. Blades? Eight thousand four hundred. Is that it, Mr. Major? Why, I shouldn't have so much money in the world if it hadn't been that some other gentlemen have been paying me. I tell you something in confidence. You're the only gentleman I know who was on King Bruce. What are you going to do on the next race, Mr. Major? Back another winner?"
"What price Sweet Violet for the Maiden Plate?"
Mr. Jacobs paused. He sucked the point of his pencil The usual chorus broke out on either side of him: "I'll lay you two to one, sir."
Mr. Jacobs spoke. "Well, Mr. Major, it's my business to lay against horses at the market odds. I'll give you seven to three, though I'm not quite sure that I am doing the proper thing, you know. How much? The lot?"
Mr. Major held out to him the handful of banknotes which he had just received.
"I don't know, Mr. Major, if you think I've brought the Bank of England out with me, because I haven't; so if I run a little short—and you do seem as though you were going to bleed me—perhaps you wouldn't mind taking my cheque; you'll find it good enough."
"I shall be delighted."
The bet was made. Sweet Violet won easily was the general verdict; though as to that Mr. Major knew nothing. He saw the number go up upon the telegraph, and that was all he knew about it. He received back his eight thousand four hundred pounds, and an open cheque to boot. The figures upon that cheque seemed to dance before his eyes. But as he handed over that cheque Mr. Jacob's mood seemed to be by no means effusive.
"That's enough for me, Mr. Major, for to-day. I'm going to take to backing horses for a change."
Whether Mr. Jacobs meant what he said or not, at any rate, he declined to have anything more to do with Mr. Major.
"You're too clever for me!" he declared.
The artist had to seek a market elsewhere. Not that it took him long to find one—offers to deal rained on him from every side.
"Deal with me—I'm George Foote, Mr. Major."
Mr. Major knew the name—through the sporting prints—"I'll cash Mr. Jacobs' cheque; though, mind you, I shouldn't be surprised if it was a stumer! This is the shop for cheques. What's your fancy, Mr. Major?"
"What price Devil's Own for the Churchill Handicap?"
"I'll give you seven to four, and I'll go you for Mr. Jacobs' cheque."
"Why," shouted a voice in the crowd, "just now you were giving six to one."
"Very well, Mr. Major, you deal with that gentleman over there. He'll lay you six to one—in pennies. Seven to four's my price."
"I want to go for more than the cheque."
"The cheque's big enough for me. What's the size of it? Nineteen thousand six hundred—yes, that's quite big enough for me."
Another penciller addressed himself to Mr. Major.
"How much more do you want to do?"
"Eight thousand five hundred."
"I'll do it at George Foote's price. You know me, I daresay, Tom Grainger, of Nottingham—Grainger with an 'i.'"
Directly the artist had made his bet Devil's Own seemed to be in general demand.
"Mr. Major! You here!"
As Mr. Major was thrusting Mr. Grainger's ticket into his pocket someone addressed him from behind. Turning, there was Miss Davidson. His heart seemed suddenly to cease to beat
"You!" was all that he could gasp.
She laughed.
"I did not know that you were a racing man. Allow me to introduce you to Sir Gerald Mason." Mr. Major was conscious that a resplendent middle-aged gentleman was acting as the lady's escort.
"Are you alone?"
Mr. Major explained, stammeringly, that he was. Half unconsciously, he fell in by the lady's side. The three threaded their way among the crowd. They reached a drag.
"I daresay we can find a place for you, if it's only standing room."
Presently Mr. Major found himself, with other ladies and gentlemen, on top of a four-in-hand.
"Well, have you won?" inquired Miss Davidson, who seemed to have taken him under her wing.
"Yes," There was a choking in the artist's throat "Nearly thirty thousand pounds."
"What!"
The artist found himself greeted with a general stare.
"Nearly thirty thousand pounds."
"To-day?"
"Yes, all of it to-day."
Sir Gerald Mason seemed to be particularly struck.
"That's a tidy little trifle," he observed.
Another gentleman came clambering on to the roof.
"I can't make it out. There's something up. Just now they were laying anything against Devil's Own. Now they want three to one on."
"I expect," said Mr. Major, "it's because of me."
"Because of you?" The new-comer stared.
"Oh!"
"I've just been backing him for nearly thirty thousand pounds!"
"The deuce you have!"
"He's sure to win."
"Is he, indeed? May I ask how you know it?"
"A person with whom I am acquainted gave me yesterday the names of all to-day's winners. Devil's Own is one of them. I have them here." Mr. Major took out an old, soiled envelope. There was something written in pencil on the back of it. He held it out in front of him. There was a universal smile. The artist was aware of it. "I came out this morning with four hundred pounds. I have backed three of the horses whose names are on this envelope. I have already won nearly thirty thousand pounds. I have placed it all upon Devil's Own. Devil's Own will win. All the horses whose names are on this envelope will win. I am sure of it."
In his voice there was a ring of enthusiastic conviction. His eyes met Miss Davidson's. She smiled at him. "I hope they will, for your sake."
"Thank you. I knew you would."
He held out his hand to her. She gave him hers, blushing as she did so. The other people on the drag glanced at one another. When Miss Davidson withdrew her hand she turned to the course.
"We shall soon know if your prediction is true; they are starting."
They were starting, though they did not start just then. Racehorses are not to be induced to start by clockwork. But, at last, the flag was dropped. The runners came flying down the course.
"George!" exclaimed Sir Gerald Mason. "It's a procession!"
A horse had run off with the lead. He not only kept it, but increased it as he went. The race was finished.
"A walk over for Devil's Own," remarked the gentleman who last had clambered on to the coach. He turned to Mr. Major, "I should like, sir, to know your friend."
"How much have you won, Mr. Major?"
The inquiry came from Miss Davidson. Mr. Major glanced at his couple of pasteboards.
"I have eight thousand four hundred on with one man, and nineteen thousand six hundred with another; that's twenty-eight thousand pounds, at seven to four that's forty-nine thousand pounds."
Someone so far forgot good manners as to whistle; it was the gentleman who had clambered on to the coach. Mr. Major's glance sought Miss Davidson's. Her eyes were gleaming.
"All won? I congratulate you."
"Really?"
"With all my heart"
His cheeks were flushed. His eyes were gleaming too. Words seemed trembling on his tongue. Before he could utter them he was assailed with a question.
"What's going to win the next?"
It came in half a dozen voices. He glanced at the back of the envelope.
"Estrella will win the Visitors' Plate."
"Estrella! She'll never stay the course; and she's nowhere in the betting."
"As for being nowhere in the betting, all the better for small punters like myself," remarked the elderly Sir Gerald.
He descended to the ground; the others seemed to be all talking together. Mr. Major and Miss Davidson for the moment were unnoticed.
"What are you going to do? You're not going to do any more betting?"
"I am. I am going to put every penny upon Estrella."
"Oh, Mr. Major!"
"Miss Davidson, I know that I shall win."
"You seem very confident But you know you cannot always have good fortune. And you are playing for high stakes, you must remember."
"I am, for the highest possible. I am playing for the greatest prize in the world."
His earnestness seemed to abash her.
"Whatever it is I hope you will win it"
"You mean it?"
She turned away.
"Of course I do."
He hesitated. He seemed about to speak. Then, with a sudden impulse, he too descended to the ground.
"Put on five pounds for me," she said to him as he went down. "I'll back your luck."
He looked up at her, his face peony red. But he was speechless. His entry into the ring was greeted with something like applause: already he was famous. In his mastering excitement he did not notice it.
"Hollo! Mr. Major," cried Mr. Grainger of Nottingham, "don't you think you're knocking 'em? Are you going for the gloves? Do you want to break the lot of us? We've all got wives and children, and we don't want to see 'em in the workhouse. What's the next article, Mr. Major?"
"What price Estrella for the Visitors' Plate?"
For a moment it seemed that there was no price. Then Mr. Grainger made a bid.
"I'll do you at evens, but not for a million, you know."
"I won't do you at any price," said Mr. Foote, who seemed unhappy. "I say with Mr. Jacobs—Mr. Major's too clever for me."
Sir Gerald Mason was standing by the artist's side.
"Evens!" he exclaimed. "Why, Estrella's quoted at forty to one."
"Oh, that was before Mr. Major was on. Mr. Major's hand-in-glove with the Old Gentleman—he's got the key of the stable."
Mr. Jacobs interposed.
"Look here, mister, I don't know who you are, but you've got twenty-eight thousand pounds of my money. Go you double or quits; evens against Estrella."
"I'll come in with you, Jacobs," cried an enterprising gentleman, whose name was Johnson—that well-known patron of "the fancy." "I'll do you the same price in any sum you choose, Mr. Major—a million if you like—I think I'm good for it!"
Mr. Major had to be content with the terms.
"I haven't done very well for you, Miss Davidson," he explained when he returned to the drag. "I've only got evens."
"It's a robbery," declared the elderly Sir Gerald; "rank robbery!"
"Rather too barefaced robbery for me." Thus Mr. Wilmot, which was the name of the gentleman who had clambered last on to the drag. "I don't think this time your friend has done you a good turn, Mr. Major. From her form Estrella hasn't the ghost of a chance. Personally, I should say the odds against her were more than forty to one."
"By Jove!" exclaimed a ruddy-faced young gentleman, with a "pane of glass" in his eye, "I hope she will win! I've a monkey on her!"
"Not to mention my five pounds," laughed Miss Davidson.
"Your money is quite safe. Estrella will win—I know it"
"Excuse me, Mr. Major," said Mr. Wilmot, "but your tone would almost suggest that you had been getting at somebody or something on a very extensive scale. You seem cock-sure."
"I am cock-sure."
"They're off!"
They were. Mr. Wilmot's glasses followed the race.
"A capital start. Bedgown's leading—Canute second. Hollo! The Squire's coming. Estrella's nowhere. The Squire's in front! What's that slipped through—Patience? Patience is coming! Come on, Patience; The Squire is racing her! Where's your Estrella, Mr. Major? She don't seem to be in this race. Patience is ahead! Bravo, Patience! By George, Canute's coming! He's in front! He's running away from 'em! Just look how he's going! It's all over—Canute for a million! Hollo! how about your Estrella, Mr. Major? What's that—what's that in blue and pink? It's—it's Estrella! Dashed if she isn't coming on; hang me if she isn't! My eyes, how she's travelling! If there's time, she'll overhaul the leader! She has! She's collared him! She's racing him! She's passed him! Gosh! she's won!"
"I've won over a hundred and fifty thousand pounds." With one accord they turned to Mr. Major, He seemed in a sort of ecstasy. He repeated the words, "I've won over a hundred and fifty thousand pounds. I knew Estrella'd win."
Mr. Wilmot looked a little white.
"It's uncommonly queer," he said.
"It is queer; I know it's queer. But I knew she'd win."
Miss Davidson spoke.
"I congratulate you, Mr. Major, with all my heart I never knew anyone who won a hundred and fifty thousand pounds before—and in a single day!"
"I shall win more before I've finished."
"You are surely not going to tempt Fortune again?"
"No—not fortune! The man who gave me the names of the horses which I have here was inspired. It was given to him to see behind the veil. I half suspected it at the time. I see it clearly now. It is not Fortune I am tempting; I am betting upon certainties. I know that every horse he gave me is sure to win!"
The people looked at one another. They were apparently in doubt as to whether this young gentleman was altogether sane. "What has this very remarkable friend of yours given you for the Cup?"
"Ballet Girl."
"That sounds more promising. Ballet Girl's my own fancy, and the favourite. But, if you take my advice, Mr. Major, you'll keep out of the ring. Let me deal for you. If they know you're dealing it'll knock the market all to pieces; you'll get no price at all"
"What does it matter what price I get? What does it matter if I have to give ten to one if I know the horse will win?"
Mr. Wilmot shrugged his shoulders.
"Of course, if you know, there's nothing further to be said."
Mr. Major found the ring in a panic. His entry was greeted with a roar of voices.
"Mr. Major, you've about broke me," yelled Mr. Jacobs. Then came a volley of adjectives. "I can't make things out at all. Upon my soul, I don't know that I didn't ought to appeal to the stewards."
Someone shouted in the crowd—
"Pay up, Jake, and look pleasant!"
"I'll pay up," said Mr. Jacobs; "but as for looking pleasant"
There came more adjectives.
"What are you going to do in the Hunt Cup, Mr. Major?"
The inquiry came from neither Mr. Jacobs nor Mr. Grainger.
"What price Ballet Girl?"
It was odd, after the previous tumult, to notice the silence with which Mr. Major's words were greeted—the completer silence still which followed them. No one made a price.
"You're surely not afraid of one man? What, all the lot of you?"
"Dash me!" roared Mr. Jacobs. "No man shall say that I'm afraid of him—not if I have to go into the workhouse to-morrow. I'll tell you what I'll do, Mr. Major. I'll give you the chance to make the biggest bet that was ever made in England. You've got over a hundred and fifty thousand pounds there, and by ! most of it's mine. If you like to put the lot of it on Ballet Girl, at five to one on, I'll take you."
"Five to one on?" shouted the crowd.
"Five to one on!" vociferated Mr. Jacobs. "And that's an offer which I doubt if any other man upon this course will make you."
It was not a tempting offer, but Mr. Major took it.
"You're a very foolish man, sir," said Mr. Wilmot, who was standing at his elbow.
"Why? I know the horse will win."
"You may know, but I don't, and you've spoilt the market for other men."
The start was a long time coming. While they waited for it there was considerable excitement on the top of the drag.
"Mr. Major," said Miss Davidson, "I do hope that mysterious friend of yours is right again. It will be a dreadful thing if Ballet Girl should fail us. We are all of us on her to a man."
"And at such a price!" growled Mr. Wilmot. "Upon my word, I am ashamed of myself when I think that I ever allowed myself to be induced to back any horse at such a figure."
Mr. Major was standing by Miss Davidson. His eyes, which rested on her, were eloquent with many things. Always good-looking, just then he was even curiously handsome.
"Ballet Girl will win; I am sure of it. Then—then I shall never bet again."
"Never?"
"Never. I don't think I ever bet before. I never shall again."
"Your luck has been fabulous—really quite incredible. If I had been you I should have been content with what I'd won. To risk it all seems—seems dreadful."
"Why? You would be prepared to bet that two and two make four a thousand times in succession."
"But that is different."
"Not at all. Just as certainly as you know that two and two make four, I know that Ballet Girl will win. I shall have made my fortune. I shall have only one thing left to win. Only one!"
Someone said they were getting ready to start. All eyes were turned towards the course. Mr. Wilmot's glasses again came into play.
"Isn't that Tragedy Queen who won't stand still? Up go her heels! Now there's Chappie joining her!"
Mr. Major, under cover of the gathering excitement, half whispered to Miss Davidson—
"I shall have only one thing left to win."
"I hope you will win it, whatever it is." She faced him. "Mr. Major, I do hope Ballet Girl will win."
"I know she will."
"They're off!"
They were. Mr. Wilmot favoured them with a running commentary.
"A good start! What's that in the black and white hoops in front? Hollo! Chappie's making the pace. Tragedy Queen seems to be funking it, or is young Blades holding her in? Ballet Girl seems to be running third. White will get himself shut in if he doesn't look out Hollo! Chappie's ahead! Mark Antony's challenging him! They're making a ding-dong thing of it, by George! Ballet Girl's creeping up; so's Tragedy Queen. What is that in the black and white hoops? Isn't it Bar One? It is Bar One! Ballet Girl is coming on. By gad, she is! Hark at the people shouting. Our five to one chance looks rosy, Mr. Major. She's collared Chappie! Tragedy Queen is sticking to her. It strikes me it's going to be a race between the pair of them. Bar One's third. Isn't Ballet Girl just flying? Bravo! Why, there must be two lengths between her and Tragedy Queen! Hark at the people! I say, Mr. Major, the devil must be in that friend of yours; Ballet Girl's half a dozen lengths in front! She's having a lark with them! She's—why!—what is that? She's down! down! My God! Why don't White pick her up? There's something wrong! Tragedy Queen's passed her! So's Bar One! Bar One's gaining! Bar One's in front!!!" Mr. Wilmot must have forgotten the presence of ladies. And in that hot moment it is not impossible that his forgetfulness was overlooked. "Bar One's won!" He turned on Mr. Major. "Bar One has won!"
There was a hubbub of many voices, a wild rush of people on to the course, where Ballet Girl lay motionless. Her last race was run. The flush had faded from Mr. Major's cheeks, the light from his eyes.
"I have lost!—lost!— lost it all!" He turned to Miss Davidson. "You—you won't let it make any difference?"
"Make any difference?"
"I did it all for you. I—I did not like to come to you with empty hands."
"Mr. Major! What do you mean?"
"Although I loved you so, I did not like to think that you were rich and I was poor. If I had won I should have given it all to you—it would have been for you that it was won."
The lady turned away. It almost seemed that this remarkable young gentleman was making a declaration of affection, in public, on the roof of a drag, right before the eyes—the ears!—of a number of amazed and bewildered strangers.
"You—you won't let it make any difference because—because I have lost."
The lady favoured him with a front view. Her cheeks were a flaming red; but, in spite of it, she was the more self-possessed of the two.
"I think, Mr. Major, that excitement has turned your brain. It is rather a singular place in which to volunteer such a statement, but I don't know if you are aware that I am engaged to be married to Mr. Philip Cumberland?"
"Engaged? To Mr. Cumberland?" It was piteous to see the young man's face. "But he's in Oban."
"I don't know how you know he is in Oban. Nor do I see why his being in Oban should make any difference to the fact of our engagement."
"But—why did you buy my picture?"
"My good sir, I have never bought any picture of yours."
"Gill said it was you."
"You seem to be favoured with some curious friends. I have not the honour of Mr. Gill's acquaintance. Had I purchased your picture, I do not see how the purchase would have warranted your peculiar behaviour. As a matter of fact, I have done nothing of the kind."
Mr. Wilmot slipped his arm through Mr. Major's.
"Come, my friend, I think you and I had better take a stroll together. You seem to have let us in for a very nice thing!"
IV.
"Gill!" Mr. Major knocked at the door again. "Gill!" There was still no answer. He turned the handle. The door was open. Mr. Major entered. The lamp was still unlighted, but he could see that Mr. Gill was seated at the table. "Gill!" Mr. Gill continued silent Mr. Major went and touched him on the shoulder. "Gill!"
He started back. Mr. Gill was dead!
"Starvation—that's what it is."
Thus spoke the landlady, hastily summoned to the presence of the newly dead.
"Starvation!"
The young man turned his ghastly face to the woman's.
"Starvation. He's been slowly starving this ever so long. I don't believe he's tasted a morsel of meat these last two weeks. He owed me seven weeks' rent. But he was such an old lodger I didn't like to be hard on him. Now, I suppose, I shall lose it all."
"But I thought he had so many clients?"
"Not one. He used to have when first I knew him, but they turned him up—long ago! I don't believe he ever named a winner in his life. I know more than once he put me on a wrong one. Of late things have been preying on his mind. It's my belief that for nearly a week now he's been quite cracked."
Mr. Major wondered.