“All serene!” said he testily; “do as you please. I’ve warned you to keep out of it, young Oakshott. Don’t blame me if you burn your fingers.”
Thus said his prigship, and undid all the credit his little act of self-denial had earned him. He is not the only boy who gets his head turned now and then by the unexpected discovery that he is virtuous. Is he, reader?
But, without being a prophet, his prigship managed on the present occasion to make a pretty near prediction, for Sir Digby Oakshott did burn his fingers.
He was summoned one evening to Mills’s study to draw his horse. The twenty-one names were shaken up in a hat, and those present each drew out one. To Dig’s disgust, he drew Blazer—a horse whom everybody jeered at as a rank outsider. Simson was the fortunate drawer of Roaring Tommy. Mills got the second favourite, and Felgate—for whom, in his absence, Mills drew—got another outsider called Polo.
Dig scarcely liked to tell Arthur of his bad luck, but his chum extracted the secret from him.
“I’m jolly glad!” said Arthur sententiously; “the worst thing that could happen to you would be to win. I’m glad you’ll have a good lesson.”
“Thanks,” said Dig, and went out to try to sell Blazer for three stamps. But no one would look at him, and Dig finally crushed the paper into his waistcoat-pocket in disgust, and wished he had his stamps safe there instead.
A fortnight later, just as he and Arthur were marching down proudly to the cricket-field, in order to take part in a great match—the first of the season.—between an eleven of Ainger’s and an eleven of Barnworth’s, he was struck all of a heap by the amazing announcement, conveyed by Simson, that Blazer had won the Derby! Dig turned pale at the news, and convulsively dug his hand into his pocket to see if he had his paper safe.
“Not really?” he exclaimed.
“Yes, he has! Roaring Tommy was nowhere. Jolly lucky for me I sold my ticket to Tilbury for eight-and-six! I wish I’d bought yours for threepence when you asked me.”