But the race in which the lads had interested themselves was to be one of the first run, and so they did not have to wait long before the news was flashed from the northern town to this Fleet Street newspaper office, and almost as soon as it was known inside, it was made known to the waiting crowd in the street.
With straining eyes and senses almost reeling from the intensity of his anxiety, Tom heard the name of the winner proclaimed. "Tittlebrat is first! Tittlebrat is first!" came the cry in all the varied intonations of rage, despair, triumph, and relief.
To many a foolish young fellow gathered round that window, it meant misery and ruin, for what did they know about horses or the ways of managing them? They had learned which was the favourite each in his own way, and now that an outsider had won, they felt they had been cheated, duped; but what could they do? They might feel morally certain there had been unfair play somewhere, but they could not prove it, dared not say they had suffered by it, but in grim silence must bear their wrongs and disappointment, though it should mean starvation and perhaps a felon's lot in prison for the next few years.
To Tom the relief was so great that he reeled, and would have fallen, if the good-natured Bob had not caught him as he was slipping to the ground.
"Hullo, old fellow, are you hit as hard as that?" he said in a tone of compassion. For all his little store of hardly gathered shillings had been swept away, and he made sure Tom had also betted on the favourite, although he had been so quiet about it.
"All right," gasped Tom, after he had rested on the pavement a minute. "I'll get up now," he said, "or the police will be asking what is the matter."
"Oh, the police are used to a crowd here on a race day, and won't notice it. Are you hit over Warrior like the rest of us?" he asked.
But Tom shook his head. "I went on Tittlebrat," he said, and try as he would, he could not help the tone being a triumphant one.
