"It's a fair deal I'm proposin' to you, Mr. Clithero, sir," muttered the jockey, his voice seeming to harmonise and blend with that of the imaginary tempter. "I can do it easy as easy, and who wants a beastly Jew to win? You can back Asmodeus for all you like—put your shirt on 'im—for if we get to understand each other he's bound to win, there ain't another horse in the race. It'll be worth your while, I tell you that straight."
Perhaps, all unconsciously, the jockey had made a mistake when he spoke of making money upon the horse's victory, which was the last thing that Mostyn, who never made a bet, cared about doing. In some insidious fashion, this new suggestion touched a cord in the boy's nature and made him realise the peril in which he stood. He, who had never in his life done an act which he could call dishonourable, what was he thinking of now? How could he have allowed himself, even for a moment, to listen to so vile a suggestion? His cheeks flushed with shame. With a mighty effort he thrust the temptation aside. He smote the table violently with his fist, and broke out with an oath—an oath that came strangely to his lips.
"D—— you, you dirty hound!" He pushed his chair bark, and stood trembling with wrath, towering huge over the wretched little man. "How dare you come to me with such a proposal? How dare you? how dare you? Get out of the room, and out of the house, and be sharp about it, or before God——" He raised his fist threateningly.
The little jockey slipped from his chair, nearly sliding on to the floor in his dismay, and held up his puny fists as if to ward off a blow. "Look 'ere, Mr. Clithero, sir," he whined, "what are you a-gettin' at? I came 'ere as a friend—for your good."
"Go!" thundered Mostyn, pointing a trembling forefinger at the door. "I told you to go."
"Very well, I'm goin'." The jockey, seeing that he stood in no danger of bodily hurt, pulled himself together and shuffled towards the door. "You ain't treated me fair, Mr. Clithero," he grumbled, as he went. His little eyes shot malice. He muttered something else under his breath—a remark that was evidently not intended for Mostyn's ears; nor did the latter, who had turned to ring the bell for Frazer, notice the clenched fists or the vindictive look.
At the door the jockey halted once more. "Look 'ere," he growled, "you're not a-goin' to say anythin' about this? I trust you as a gentleman."
"You may cheat your master, for all I care," said Mostyn, "as long as you don't do it for me. That's his own look out, not mine, but remember that I have nothing to do with you or with your dirty tricks. Now go!" Once more he pointed to the door, and the next moment, mouthing an ugly word under his breath, the jockey was gone.
As for Mostyn, he stood for a moment, breathing hard, his teeth tightly clenched together; then he threw himself down upon a chair, leaning his elbows upon the table, and pressing his hands to his forehead.
"My God!" he muttered to himself, "and there was a moment when I might have yielded!"