"What does that mean?"
"It means that he's a rank outsider."
"Then we mustn't put our money on him."
"I've known outsiders win splendidly, and, of course, if they do, their backers get thundering odds. If we put our money on Milk-O and he wins we're only in for five shillings each, but if Midsummer Moon wins for us, why, we get over twelve pounds."
"Oh!" gasped Tony. Her eyes grew round. "Over twelve pounds"—that would mean all sorts of splendours—a new hockey-stick, a real spliced beauty instead of the silly unspliced thing her father thought "good enough for a girl"; she would be able to get that wonderful illustrated edition of the Idylls of the King, which she had seen in Gladys Gates' home and admired so much; and directly she went back to school she could give a gorgeous midnight feast—a feast of the superior order, with lemonade and veal-and-ham pies, not one of those scratch affairs at which you ate only buns and halfpenny meringues and drank a concoction of acid-drops dissolved in the water-jug.
Nigel saw the enthusiasm growing on her face.
"Well, would you like to put your money on Midsummer Moon? Of course you're more likely to lose, but if you win, you'll make a good thing out of it."
"Do you think he'll win?"
"I can't say—but it's a sporting chance."
"I think it's worth the risk," said Tony in a low, thrilled voice.