When you were--for once--talking sensibly for a
Corker fag, you are called away to----"
"Cork all that frivol, old man, till you see me at tea," said Jack,
moving into Biffen's yard.
When Jack was comfortably installed in a chair, Acton bolted his door,
and, somewhat to young Bourne's surprise, seemed rather in a fix how to
start what he had to say. The locking of the door was unusual, and this,
combined with Acton's grave face and hesitating manner, made Jack a
trifle uneasy. Whatever was coming?
"I say, Bourne," at last said his friend, "do you know anything about
betting?"
"Betting!" said Jack, with a vivid blush. "About as much as most of the
fellows know of it. Not more."
"Well, do you mind reading this?" He handed Jack a slip of paper which
contained such cryptic sentences as: "Grape Shot gone wrong, though he
will run. Pocket Book is the tip. If you're on Grape Shot, hedge on best
terms you can get," etc.
"I understand that," said Jack, "you've--if this means you--you've
backed the wrong horse."
"Exactly," said Acton. "I backed Grape Shot for the Lincolnshire
Handicap, and he hasn't a ghost of a chance now. Gone wrong."
"I see," said Jack, absolutely staggered that Acton, a monitor, should
tell him, a fag, that he was betting on horse-racing.
"I see, young 'un, that you seem surprised at my little flutter, but, by
Jove! this will have to be my last. Do you know, Bourne, I'm in an awful
hole."
"I'm very sorry to hear it," said Jack, with no end of concern.
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