"Oh, Tom Mickle!" Reginald exclaimed disparagingly. "Well, of course, he may be right, and, anyway, I suppose you'll pin your faith upon him, eh? I'm rather inclined to back the other eleven. I'll bet you half-a-crown that the Grammar School gets a licking. What do you say to that?"
"I don't think I'll bet," Gerald responded, shaking his head. "What's the use? If I lose I shan't have the money to pay."
"Oh, nonsense! Besides, very likely you'll win. After all, Tom Mickle's pretty shrewd, and he knows as much about cricket as any boy in the school, although he's not in the first eleven himself yet. I'll be bound to say he's backing the Grammar School himself."
"He doesn't bet."
"Not that you know of."
"I'm certain he doesn't. He told me he never meant to. He thinks it wrong."
"Well, you don't think it's wrong, I suppose?"
"I don't think it's right — exactly," was the evasive response. "I—I've been thinking a great deal about it lately, and I don't see the good of going on with it. I've never made much by betting; I've always lost more than I've won."
"You've been unlucky, there's no doubt of that, but some people make fortunes by betting, I've heard. You ought to try to win back some of what you've lost, if only to pay me. Oh, I say, here comes Miss Goodwin! What a nuisance!"
Gerald turned his head, and saw the little lady coming towards them from the direction of the town; she lifted the skirt of her gown above the dust with one hand, whilst with the other she held a large green umbrella over her head as a protection from the too fierce sunshine.