"Backed it at the right time, my boy; backed it in April, and got thirties to one three times in hundreds."
"Nine thousand to three hundred," Alfred put in rapidly and enviously.
"That's a good calculation of yours, and quickly done," observed Mr. Sheldrake, with a nod of approval.
"O yes, I'm good at mental arithmetic," was the conceited answer.
"That's what's wanted in racing matters. You go to a race, and you hear the odds bawled out, and you want to hedge, perhaps; the odds are constantly changing, and you've got to seize them at the proper moment. To do that properly, you must be smart at figures, and then you're all right. I know many a man who can't write anything but his own name, and who makes pots of money because he can calculate the odds quickly. It's a gift, and you've got it, my boy. Fill up your glass."
Alfred filled his glass, his face beaming with conceit.
"Go on with the Zephyr colt," he said. "You stuck to the bet, didn't you?"
"No, I didn't; I hedged, like a fool."
"Ah, I shouldn't have done that!"
"No more ought I, and no more should I, if I had had some one to advise me. You know it was at the commencement of April that the colt was at thirty to one, and a fortnight afterwards it was at twelve. I hedged at those odds to win my three hundred pounds, and make myself safe."