“Well, not much. Hazy—not more than I could soon pay off,” said the boy, looking timidly in her face, and then shrinking from her searching eyes.
“There is something more?”
“Ye-es,” he faltered; and then, desperately, after a few moments’ hesitation, “It was all Tom Short’s fault.”
“Who is Tom Short?” asked Hazel.
“A fellow in our office. He won seventy pounds by putting money on horses, and it seemed so easy; and I thought it would be so nice to get some money together so as to be able to help poor mamma.”
“There, Hazel, you hear!” cried Mrs Thorne triumphantly.
“And so you began betting on horse-races, Percy—a habit poor papa used to say was one of the greatest follies under the sun.”
“Well, no, dear, it wasn’t exactly betting, but going to a bookmaker and putting money on any horse you chose. He did the betting. You only give him your money and wait.”
“Till you know it is lost, Percy!”
“Well, yes; it was so with me, because I was so terribly unlucky. Some fellows win no end that way.”