The man on Chris’s left suddenly seized his arm.
“Hurrah for the dark horse,” he cried. “Just for the fun of the thing, I put a sov on her, and I’ve won two hundred pounds. I beg your pardon, sir, I see you’re hit. Forgive my excitement. Don’t be down-hearted; come and have a glass of champagne.”
“Thank you,” said Chris quietly; but he did not move, for the place seemed to be spinning round him, and he held tightly by the rails till a hand was laid upon his arm.
“Can I help you? You look ill.”
“Help me? No; I’m all right now,” said Chris, making an effort. “It was so sudden.”
“Have you lost heavily?”
“Lost?” said Chris, looking at him wildly. “No; I’ve won.”
He felt his hand being shaken warmly, and then he sank back into a wild, confused dream, in the midst of which he knew that he was being borne back by one of the express trains, with the roar of the race in his ears, and the sight of the horses sweeping by before his eyes.
As he neared town he began to grow more calm, and he found himself repeating the words,—
“Forty thousand pounds! I’ve won; but shall I win her now?”