That was the turning-point in his career.
He had a thousand pounds.
He was always very excitable, he told me, and the good luck drove him nearly mad with joy.
He was going to take to the turf, and make a fortune in backing horses.
No more drudgery in the City, no more gloomy offices. He would be out all day long in the country, watching the horses run, and pocketing handfuls of sovereigns over the winners.
He resigned his situation in the City, he left his home and took lodgings in the West-end, dressed himself up as a great racing swell, and for about six months lived his life at express railway speed.
His eyes quite flashed, and his cheeks glowed, as he told of those days. It was one wild round of pleasure, it carried the poor lad away body and soul—and then the end came.
Good fortune followed him at first; then came a change, and his “luck was dead out,” as he put it.
Presently he had lost all his money backing horses, and got into debt, and had to part with his things. His people would not help him. His father was very severe, and never forgave him for throwing up his situation, and the young fellow was proud, and so he kept his poverty to himself as much as he could.
Some of the fellows he had known when he was well off were kind to him in his misfortune for a bit; but as he got seedier and seedier they dropped away from him. And at last he was so ashamed of the dreadful position he had got in, that he didn’t care to go anywhere where people who had known him in his swell days were likely to be.