November came in cloth of gold—a hazy sunshine put yellow everywhere, into the bleak rain-washed fields, the white, cold mirrors of ponds, the brown heart of woods. Lingfield races were on the first of the month—from noon onwards the race-trains clanked down from London, and disgorged their sordid contents. The public-houses were full, the little village, generally so pure and drowsy, woke up to its monthly contamination. It was the last meeting of the flat-racing season, and most of the "county" was present, crowding the paddock and the more expensive enclosures, eating its lunch to the accompaniment of a band too much engrossed in the betting for the interests of good music.

Nigel Furlonger met Tony Strife at the top of Wilderwick hill. He had dressed himself with more care than usual—in the girl\'s interest he must look respectable. Leonard and Janet had been immensely surprised when he told them he meant to go to the races. The Furlonger disreputableness owed some of its celebrity to the fact that it ran along channels of its own, neglecting those approved by wealth and fashion.

"Feel you\'ve got too much cash?" jeered Leonard.

"I shan\'t do any betting to speak of."

"Don\'t you!" said Janey; "we\'re stony enough as things are."

[Pg 110]

"But I\'m not bound to lose—I may win, and retrieve the family fortunes."

"Look here, my boy," said Len, "you leave the family fortunes alone. You\'ve done too much in that line already."

Nigel coloured furiously—but the next moment his anger cooled; he had been wonderfully gentler during the last few days. He turned, and emptied his pockets on the table.

"There—take it all—except five bob for luck—and a half-crown for——" He was going to have said "the little girl\'s tea," but stopped just in time.

He occasionally wondered why he did not tell Len and Janet about Tony. But he felt doubtful as to what they might say. They would never understand how he could find such a comradeship congenial. Tony was only sixteen, and lived a very different life from his. They might laugh—no, they would not do that; more likely they would be anxious and compassionate, they would think it one of the unhealthy results of prison, they would be sorry for him, and he could not bear that they should be sorry for what brought him so much happiness. Besides, he had a natural habit of reserve—even before he went to prison he had kept secrets from Len and Janey.

Tony was waiting for him when he reached their meeting-place. She wore a plain dark coat and skirt, but she had put on a wide hat, with a wreath of crimson leaves round it, and instead of plaiting her hair, she let it stream over her shoulders, thick and sleek, without a curl. In her hand she clutched a little purse.

[Pg 111]

"I\'m going to bet on a horse," she said in an awe-struck voice.

"Which horse?"

"I don\'t know. I\'ll see when I get there."

"I\'ll try and find something pretty safe for you, and I\'ll have my money on it too."

"Isn\'t it exciting!" whispered Tony. "What should I do if I met Mrs. Arkwright or any of the mistresses!"

Mrs. Arkwright and the mistresses were not the people Furlonger dreaded to meet.

He and Tony swung gaily along the cinder-track leading to the course. It was deserted, except for a little knot at the starting gate. The girl shrank rather close to him as they came into the crowd. The shouting made her nervous and flustered—that people should make such a noise over a shady thing like betting seemed to her extraordinary. She touched Nigel\'s elbow, and showed him her purse, now open, and containing half-a-crown.

"Which is the best horse?"

"I wish I knew."

"May I look at the card?"

He gave it to her. She seemed puzzled.

"How can I tell which horse to bet on?"

A man beside them laughed, and Nigel flushed indignantly.

"You can\'t tell much by the card; I\'ll go over to the ring in a moment, and find out what the odds are. But as you don\'t want to put on more than half-a-crown, I\'d keep it till the big race, if I were you."

[Pg 112]

"Which is the big race?"

"The Lingfield Cup. It\'s the last—but we\'ll enjoy the others, even though we\'ve got nothing on \'em."

They enjoyed them thoroughly. Hanging over the rail, their shouts were just as noisy and as desperate as if they had all their possessions at stake. Tony was thrilled to the depths—the clamour and excitement in the betting ring, the odd, disreputable people all round her, surreptitiously exchanging shillings and horses\' names—the clanging bell, the shout of "They\'re off!" the flash of opera-glasses, the mad rush by, the cheers for the winner ... all plunged her into an orgy of excitement. She felt subtly wicked and daring, and also, when Nigel began to explain the technicalities of racing, infinitely worldly-wise. What would the girls at school say when they found out she knew the meaning of "Ten to one, bar one," or "Money on both ways"? She wrote such phrases down in her "nature note-book," which she carried about with her to record botanical discoveries, birds seen, sunsets, and equally blameless doings.

At last the time came for the Lingfield Cup. Tony\'s hands began to quiver. Now was the moment when she should actually become a part of that new world swinging round her. She would have her stake in the game—and a big stake too, for half-a-crown meant more than a fortnight\'s pocket-money. She looked nervously at Mr. Smith.

[Pg 113]

"We\'ll see \'em go past before we put our money on," said he, with a calmness she thought unnatural. "You can tell a lot by the way a horse canters up."

They leaned over the rail, and Tony gave a little cry at the first sight of colours coming from the paddock.

"Here they are—oh, what a beautiful horse!"

"A bit short in the leg," said Nigel, "we won\'t put our money on him."

"What about that bay—the one coming now?"

"He\'s a good \'un, I should say. That\'s Milk-O, the favourite."

"Let\'s back him."

"Wait, here\'s another. That\'s Midsummer Moon, the betting\'s 100 to 1 against him."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that he\'s a rank outsider."

"Then we mustn\'t put our money on him."

"I\'ve known outsiders win splendidly, and, of course, if they do, their backers get thundering odds. If we put our money on Milk-O and he wins we\'re only in for five shillings each, but if Midsummer Moon wins for us, why, we get over twelve pounds."

"Oh!" gasped Tony. Her eyes grew round. "Over twelve pounds"—that would mean all sorts of splendours—a new hockey-stick, a real spliced beauty instead of the silly unspliced thing her father thought "good enough for a girl"; she would be able to get that wonderful illustrated edition of the Idylls of the King, which she had seen in Gladys Gates\' home and admired so much;[Pg 114] and directly she went back to school she could give a gorgeous midnight feast—a feast of the superior order, with lemonade and veal-and-ham pies, not one of those scratch affairs at which you ate only buns and halfpenny meringues and drank a concoction of acid-drops dissolved in the water-jug.

Nigel saw the enthusiasm growing on her face.

"Well, would you like to put your money on Midsummer Moon? Of course you\'re more likely to lose, but if you win, you\'ll make a good thing out of it."

"Do you think he\'ll win?"

"I can\'t say—but it\'s a sporting chance."

"I think it\'s worth the risk," said Tony in a low, thrilled voice.

He looked at her intently.

"I always like to see any one ready to back an outsider."

"Don\'t people generally?"

"No—and nor will you, perhaps, when you\'re older."

She gave him her half-crown, and he disappeared with it into the crowd, having first carefully put her next a group of respectable farmers\' wives. In some ways, thought Tony, he was just as particular as father. She wished he would let her go with him into the ring.

He came back in a few moments. Then suddenly the bell clanged.

"They\'re off!"

Silence dropped on the babel almost [Pg 115]disconcertingly. Opera-glasses flashed towards the start, rows of heads and bodies hung over the rail, Tony\'s breath came in short gasps, so did Nigel\'s—he was desperately anxious for that outsider to win. As they had no glasses they could not see which colours led at the bend, but as the horses swung into the straight, there were shouts of "Milk-O!—Milk-O!"

"Damn the brute!" said Nigel, which gave Tony another thrill of new experience. She had actually spent the afternoon with a man who swore!

"Milk-O!—Milk-O!"

"Spreadeagle!" shouted some one. Then there were more shouts of "Spreadeagle!"

"Milk-O!"—"Spreadeagle!"—the yells were deafening—then suddenly changed into a mixture of cheers and groans, as the favourite dashed by the post.

"And—where\'s Midsummer Moon?" gasped poor Tony, as ............