“And you have a mare in the stable named Bertha entered for the Sydney Cup?”
“Yes, we have; a vicious, bad-tempered brute, and I know, for I have to ride her every day.”
“That’s very singular,” mused Huey aloud. “I was only thinking of that mare this morning, and what a pity it would be if she should win.”
“Why a pity, sir?”
“Why, don’t you know her owner is a bookmaker? Alec Booth he is called, and he is not only that, which is bad enough, but he is an outrageous Freethinker, and has promised all his winnings in this race to build them a new hall.”
“How dreadful! Has he really?”
Allowing a little time for the full gravity of this statement to duly soak into the young man, Huey continued—
“I am not a very rich man myself, but I would rather lose £200 than this should take place. Think of the hundreds of poor souls who may be lost for ever!”
“Two hundred pounds!” repeated Butt slowly, “two hundred pounds! Would you really?”
“If I was sure it would serve a good cause, I would do so cheerfully.”