“Yes; but you might pick out the favorite, Miss Hannay, so that it is quite fair.”
“Don't you bet, Isobel,” her uncle said. “Let us have a sweepstake instead.”
“What is a sweepstake, uncle?”
There was a general laugh.
“Well, my dear, we each put in a rupee. There are six of us, and there are Wilson and the Doctor. You will go in, Doctor, won't you?”
“Yes; I don't mind throwing away a rupee, Major.”
“Very well, that makes eight. We put eight pieces of paper in the hat. Six of them have got the names of the horses on, the other two are blank. Then we each pull out one. Whoever draws the name of the horse that wins takes five rupees, the holder of the second two, and the third saves his stake. You shall hold the stakes, Mrs. Hunter. We have all confidence in you.”
The slips were drawn.
“My horse is Bruce,” Isobel said.
“There he is, Miss Hannay,” Wilson, who had drawn a blank, said, as a horse whose rider had a straw colored jacket and cap came cantering along the course. “This is a race for country horses—owners up. That means ridden by their owners. That is Pearson of the 13th Native Cavalry. He brought the horse over from Lucknow.”