‘Then you can give it back to me. Give it to me, my son.’
His cunning returned to him.
‘I’ve lost it, mother. Every penny. It’s gone.’
‘Gone? Fifty pounds? You couldn’t lose it, George.’
‘You try backing horses, and you’ll see,’ he said.
‘Racing, too!’ she cried. ‘Oh, George, George! It was all I had.’
‘Well, you’ve got me, mother,’ he said. ‘What more do you want? It’s no good crying over spilt milk.’
She came to his arms, weakly sobbing, and clung to him.
‘Now don’t go crying all over me,’ he said thickly. ‘Loose me! I’m going.’
‘George, you mustn’t go, dear. You’re not fit.’