“Well, of course, you’re not obliged,” explained Simson seriously. “If I drew Roaring Tommy—I mean,” said he, correcting himself with a blush, “if I drew the favourite, you know, and potted the sweep, I should turn the stamps into tin.”
“Is Roaring Tommy the favourite, then?” asked Tilbury.
“Yes. I oughtn’t to have let it out. I told Mills I wouldn’t; because it might get his father into a row. Mills says he’s dead certain to win. I say, shall you fellows go in?”
“I don’t mind,” said Tilbury, “as it’s not money. Any fellow sell me six stamps?”
“Yes, for sevenpence,” said Arthur. “I’m not going in, young Simson. My governor said to me the chances were some young blackleg or other would be on to me to shell out something for a swindle of the kind; and he said, ‘Don’t you do it.’ Besides, I’ve not got the money.”
“I could lend you six stamps,” said Simson, who was very keen on the scheme, and failed to see any point in Arthur’s other remarks.
“Not good enough,” said Arthur.
“Not much chance of scoring, either,” said Dig, “if there’s about twenty go in and only one wins.”
“Just as likely you win it as anybody else,” said Simson.
“Come on, you needn’t funk it. Lots of fellows are in—Felgate’s in.”