“He’ll turn out a winner yet,” said Barbara hopefully.
“He might come in first if all the other starters tumbled down,” said Sidney, with an effort to treat the subject lightly, “but I’m afraid before that happens I shall have to shut up shop. Things can’t go on like this. I lost £10,000 over the Lincolnshire meeting, and that’s only a drop in the ocean. But I don’t know why I’m bothering you with my troubles,” he concluded, pulling himself up abruptly.
“I am glad you tell me,” she replied simply. “I am so very sorry that you have had such rotten luck. You’d better change it by backing my tip. Ned Foster would never have advised me to put my all on Averstone unless he knew it was a sure thing. He really has a regard for me, I believe, and he often used to say that the day would come when he’d make my fortune and his own. He doesn’t approve of betting as a general thing. He’s a most steady, cautious kind of individual.”
“I wonder,” said Sidney. “I think perhaps I’ll have a last fling. What are the odds?”
“They’re long. Averstone’s not supposed to have a ghost of a chance. I think it’s about 40 to 1 against him.”
“My word, just think if one had a few thousands on him and it came off!” said Sidney. “The bookies would all die on the spot.”
“It would be rather annoying for some one,” laughed Barbara. “I hope it will come off.”
“I’m afraid it would be too good to be true,” said Sidney gloomily, “but it would certainly save the situation if it did. If I lost a very little more I’d have to leave the army.”
“Is it as bad as that?” asked Barbara, for the first time realising the graveness of the position for Sidney. “How dreadful. I am sorry!”
The young man laughed awkwardly.