It began to strike him that he had embarked upon a highly speculative business. Tomlin was clear upon this point.
"It's a gamble if you go for big things. Buying that commode was a gamble. You can't escape from it. That's what makes it interesting. Win a tidy bit here, lose a tidy bit there, and it's all the same a hundred years hence."
This familiar philosophy percolated through Quinney's mind. It never occurred to him that he could be called a gambler, and yet something in him thrilled at the name. He heard Tomlin's platitudes, and wondered why he had never thought of them before.
"Farming's gambling—a mug's game! Sooner put my money on to a horse than into the ground! Marriage! The biggest gamble of all! You struck a winner, my lad—I didn't."
"I suppose," said Quinney, staring hard at Tomlin, "that you don't gamble outside your business?"
"Yes, I do, when I get a gilt-edged tip."
"Race-horses?"
"Stock Exchange. Customers tell me things. I'm fairly in the know, I am. Make a little bit, lose a little bit! It binges me up when I feel blue."
"I'd like to get back a slice o' that lost four hundred quid."
"Maybe I can help you to do it. A customer of mine is in the Kaffir Market."