“I don’t see what fault you can find with racing. You’re making a very good thing out of it.”
Which was true. Fortune, who had played him such scurvy tricks, was now turning on him her sunniest smile. He was winning prodigiously, fantastically. Billiter selected the horses which he was to back, he backed them to the amount advised by Billiter, and in most instances the horses won.
“If you think the mere gaining of money gives me any pleasure, my dear Billiter,” said he, “you’re very much mistaken. I have sufficient means of my own to satisfy my modest requirements, and to accept large sums of money from your friend, Mr. Jenks, is humiliating and repulsive.”
“If that’s the matter, you can turn them over to me,” said Billiter, “I don’t get much out of the business.”
They were walking about the paddock, between the races. Quixtus halted and regarded his morose companion with cold inquiry.
“You gave me to understand that you were betting on the same horses as I was.”
Billiter cursed himself for an incautious fool.
“Only now and then,” said he, “and for small stakes. How can I afford to plunge like you?”
“What is the dismal quadruped I am betting on for this next race?” asked Quixtus looking at his card.
“Punchinello. Forty-five to one. Dead cert.”