"Then Mahomet shall carry my money. I'll back him to-morrow."
Now that he had made up his mind what horse to back his spirits revived. He was able to dismiss the subject from his mind, and they talked of other things, of their son, and they laid projects for his welfare. But on the day of the race, from early morning, William could barely contain himself. Usually he took his winnings and losings very quietly. When he had been especially unlucky he swore a bit, but Esther had never seen any great excitement before a race was run. The issues of this race were extraordinary, and it was heart-breaking to see him suffer; he could not remain still a moment. A prey to all the terrors of hope, exhausted with anticipation, he rested himself against the sideboard and wiped drops of sweat from his forehead. A broiling sunlight infested their window-panes, the room grew oven-like, and he was obliged at last to go into the back parlour and lie down. He lay there in his shirt sleeves quite exhausted, hardly able to breathe; the arm once so strong and healthy was shrunken to a little nothing. He seemed quite bloodless, and looking at him Esther could hardly hope that any climate would restore him to health. He just asked her what the time was, and said, "The race is being run now." A few minutes after he said, "I think Mahomet has won. I fancied I saw him get first past the post." He spoke as if he were sure, and said nothing about the evening paper. If he were disappointed, Esther felt that it would kill him, and she knelt down by the bedside and prayed that God would allow the horse to win. It meant her husband's life, that was all she knew. Oh, that the horse might win! Presently he said, "There's no use praying, I feel sure it is all right. Go into the next room, stand on the balcony so that you may see the boy coming along."
A pale yellow sky rose behind the brick neighbourhood, and with agonised soul the woman viewed its plausive serenity. There seemed to be hope in its quietness. At that moment the cry came up, "Win-ner, Win-ner." It came from the north, from the east, and now from the west. Three boys were shouting forth the news simultaneously. Ah, if it should prove bad news! But somehow she too felt that the news was good. She ran to meet the boy. She had a half-penny ready in her hand; he fumbled, striving to detach a single paper from the quire under his arm. Seeing her impatience, he said, "Mahomet's won." Then the pavement seemed to slide beneath her feet, and the setting sun she could hardly see, so full was her heart, so burdened with the happiness that she was bringing to the poor sick fellow who lay in his shirt sleeves on the bed in the back room. "It's all right," she said. "I thought so too; it seemed like it." His face flushed, life seemed to come back. He sat up and took the paper from her. "There," he said, "I've got my place-money, too. I hope Stack and Journeyman come in tonight. I'd like to have a chat about this. Come, give me a kiss, dear. I'm not going to die, after all. It isn't a pleasant thing to think that you must die, that there's no hope for you, that you must go under ground."
The next thing to do was to pick the winner of the Yorkshire Handicap. In this he was not successful, but he backed several winners at Sandown Park, and at the close of the week had made nearly enough to take him to Egypt.
The Doncaster week, however, proved disastrous. He lost most of his winnings, and had to look forward to retrieving his fortunes at Newmarket. "The worst of it is, if I don't make up the money by October, it will be no use. They say the November fogs will polish me off."
Between Doncaster and Newmarket he lost a bet, and this bet carried him back into despondency. He felt it was no use struggling against fate. Better remain in London and be taken away at the end of November or December; he couldn't last much longer than that. This would allow him to leave Esther at least fifty pounds to go on with. The boy would soon be able to earn money. It would be better so. No use wasting all this money for the sake of his health, which wasn't worth two-pence-three-farthings. It was like throwing sovereigns after farthings. He didn't want to do any betting; he was as hollow as a shell inside, he could feel it. Egypt could do nothing for him, and as he had to go, better sooner than later. Esther argued with him. What should she have to live for if he was taken from her. The doctors had said that Egypt might set him right. She didn't know much about such things, but she had always heard that it was extraordinary how people got cured out there.
"That's true," he said. "I've heard that people who couldn't live a week in England, who haven't the length of your finger of lung left, can go on all right out there. I might get something to do out there, and the boy might come out after us."
"That's the way I like to hear you talk. Who knows, at Newmarket we might have luck! Just one big bet, a winner at fifty to one, that's all we want."
"That's just what has been passing in my mind. I've got particular information about the Cesarewitch and Cambridgeshire. I could get the price you speak of—fifty to one against the two, Matchbox and Chasuble—the double event, you know. I'm inclined to go it. It's my last chance."