Ginger took up the paper. "Twenty-five to one Briar Rose taken."
"You see, sir, it was taken."
"Will you lay the price, William—twenty-five half-sovereigns to one?"
"Yes, I'll lay it."
Ginger took a half-sovereign from his pocket and handed it to the bookmaker.
"I never take money over this bar. You're good for a thin 'un, sir,"
William said, with a smile, as he handed back the money.
"But I don't know when I shall see you again," said Ginger. "It will be very inconvenient. There's no one in the bar."
"None but the match-seller and them two flower-girls. I suppose they don't matter?"
Happiness flickered up through the old greyness of the face. Henceforth something to live for. Each morning bringing news of the horse, and the hours of the afternoon passing pleasantly, full of thoughts of the evening paper and the gossip of the bar. A bet on a race brings hope into lives which otherwise would be hopeless.