At last the time came for the Lingfield Cup. Tony's hands began to quiver. Now was the moment when she should actually become a part of that new world swinging round her. She would have her stake in the game—and a big stake too, for half-a-crown meant more than a fortnight's pocket-money. She looked nervously at Mr. Smith.
"We'll see 'em go past before we put our money on," said he, with a calmness she thought unnatural. "You can tell a lot by the way a horse canters up."
They leaned over the rail, and Tony gave a little cry at the first sight of colours coming from the paddock.
"Here they are—oh, what a beautiful horse!"
"A bit short in the leg," said Nigel, "we won't put our money on him."
"What about that bay—the one coming now?"
"He's a good 'un, I should say. That's Milk-O, the favourite."
"Let's back him."
"Wait, here's another. That's Midsummer Moon, the betting's 100 to 1 against him."