"You don't say so. His nerve never dies, eh?"
"As I said before, his is not a case of 'nerve'; it is genius. He has the prettiest story you ever read, swears his advertising man deceived him and got the paper into all manner of tight places; found himself forced to get away from the ruins so that he could the better repay his creditors, which he states he has instructed his lawyers to do, and all the rest of it! I don't believe a word of it; but he has got grit!"
"That is a national fault," said Dick soberly, "the admiration of 'grit' in scoundrels. For that is all that Wooton is, after all!"
"Oh, well, why split hairs? He never did you any harm, did he? However, about his letter. He writes from Dresden. Says he has just met some Americans—name of Ware, I think. Enjoying himself immensely—girl in the party—moonlight rides and all that sort of thing. Wonder how long he'll last over there?"
"I know some Wares," said Dick quietly; "but I hardly think it could be the same ones. Though they are in Europe just now, that's true." His thoughts tried to hark back to Lincolnville, to his parting with Dorothy Ware, and to her return; but the present was too strong for him. They were driving across the course at this moment, and over into the field, which was already a motly, colored mass of vehicles, white dresses, parasols and stamping horses. The tops of coaches were made over into sitting room for summer-dressed girls, of whose faces one caught only the white under-half—the chin and the mouth, in high sun relief—while the eyes were in shade of the huge parasols. One caught glimpses of light shoes and hose; of young men walking, in earnest converse over betting tickets held in hand; of wicker lunch-baskets being brought from the inner chambers of the coaches and prepared for a future hunger; and, beyond, in the grand stand, of a black, indistinguishable mass of spectators, noisy, tremendous.
As soon as they had found a place for the dog-cart, from which they would be able to see the finish with tolerable comfort and completeness, Stanley said, with a noticeable alacrity succeeding the languid pessimism that had distinguished him all during the drive down.
"Now then, Lancaster, let's hurry over to the betting-shed!"
For a moment only Dick hesitated. "Going to bet, or just to look on?" he asked.
"Bet, of course, you innocent infant! But, Scotland, you don't have to! You can just soak in the—what do you call it—the impressionistic view of it. But hurry up, whatever you are going to do, I don't want the odds to tumble down too far before I get there!"
Not so long ago Dick would have cavilled, hesitated, perhaps refused. Now he caught his half-uttered objections being met by a whisper in his own mind of 'Don't be a prig!' and he followed Stanley silently. It occurred to him, presently, that to warn oneself of becoming a prig was in itself evidence of priggishness. Impatiently he shook his head, as if to get all analytical reflections out of his head altogether. He looked at the scene around him, and forgot everything else.