In his own chamber the bishop had gone over in his own mind, not once, but a hundred times, the question, at the present the one momentous to him above all others, should he visit the race course that afternoon to see the Derby run? A thousand reasons had suggested themselves why he should not do so. One why he should stood forth clearly and plainly. When all had been turned over in his mind, something told him “Go!”
But how should he go? As he was, his clothes of severe clerical cut singling him out for the sneers of the unrighteous? He would not deny his Master. In his own heart he knew that his presence at the race course meant no intent of desecration of his calling, though he believed horse racing was one of the unpardonable sins.
So his mind was settled that he should go!
At the street corner he bought a newspaper. In it he read that the great Derby would be decided about four P. M. By inquiring casually, he learned that the race course was not many minutes distant.
Hailing a passing cab, he asked, in a voice in which he endeavored to hide the shame he felt:
“To the race course, please. Shall I be in time for the Derby race?”
The half-intoxicated driver looked him over carefully before replying, with a leer:
“All the time you want. I’ll take you right there as cheap as anybody, and I’ll give you a tip besides! If this wasn’t my busy day I’d be inside there, too, quick.”
He pointed his whip indefinitely. “Take my tip, sir,” he added, insinuatingly, holding to the swinging door. “Don’t bet a penny on Ixion. Hotspur is the goods to-day. He’ll beat Ixion a mile. You mind what I’m telling you. I’ve got inside information.”
The bishop’s soul was filled with disgust as he stepped inside.