A boy slipped into the Paddock and began to bet surreptitiously behind the dressing-tent.
He was fair, slight, and horsey. His stiff, tight choker, his horse-shoe pin, the cut of his breeches, his alert and wary air of a man of the world, all betrayed the racing-lad. From the corner of his mouth hung a cigarette waggishly a-rake; and his billycock had just the correct and knowing cock. He kept well under the lee of the tent; and if he was brazen, it was clear that he was sinning and fearful of discovery: for he had one eye always on the watch for the Avenging Angel who might swoop down on him at any moment.
"What price, Goosey Gander?" he asked in a voice harsh and cracking.
"Give you threes," replied the bookie.
"Do it in dollars," replied the boy, with the magnificent sang-froid of one who goes to ruin as a man of blood should go.
"And again?" asked the bookie.
The answer was never forth-coming; for the Avenging Angel, not unexpected, swept down upon the sinner with flaming sword.
She was in the shape of a girl about the lad's own age and size, fair as was he and slight, a flapper with a short thick straw-coloured plait. She came round the tent swift and terrible as a rapier, her steel-gray eyes flashing and fierce. Such determination on so young a face the bookie thought he had never seen. For a moment he expected to see her strike her victim. And the boy apparently expected the same, for he cowered back, putting up his hands as though to ward off a blow.
"Got you, sonny," said the bookie, and bolted with a half-hearted grin.
The girl never hesitated. She leapt upon her victim, keen and direct as a tigress.