Jack was staidly taking a turn up and down the pavement with Grim when, on passing by Biffen's house, he heard a whistle from one of the windows, and, on looking up, he saw Acton.
"I want you, Bourne, for five minutes—if you can spare them."
"Of course he can," said Grim, sotto voce. "Aren't you a monitor? Jack, my boy, Acton wants to knight you—or something. You'll find his boots in the bottom cupboard, if you want to black 'em very much. I suppose, being only a common or garden fag, my feelings aren't to be considered for a moment. When you were—for once—talking sensibly for a Corker fag, you are called away to——"
"Cork all that frivol, old man, till you see me at tea," said Jack, moving into Biffen's yard.
When Jack was comfortably installed in a chair, Acton bolted his door, and, somewhat to young Bourne's surprise, seemed rather in a fix how to start what he had to say. The locking of the door was unusual, and this, combined with Acton's grave face and hesitating manner, made Jack a trifle uneasy. Whatever was coming?
"I say, Bourne," at last said his friend, "do you know anything about betting?"
"Betting!" said Jack, with a vivid blush. "About as much as most of the fellows know of it. Not more."
"Well, do you mind reading this?" He handed Jack a slip of paper which contained such cryptic sentences as: "Grape Shot gone wrong, though he will run. Pocket Book is the tip. If you're on Grape Shot, hedge on best terms you can get," etc.
"I understand that," said Jack, "you've—if this means you—you've backed the wrong horse."
"Exactly," said Acton. "I backed Grape Shot for the Lincolnshire Handicap, and he hasn't a ghost of a chance now. Gone wrong."