seven events upon the card The first is at half-past one; mind you're there. The Blenheim Plate—Ladybird will win that; write it down." Mr. Major wrote it down, still smiling. "The Windsor Stakes—King Bruce. The Maiden Plate—Sweet Violet. The Churchill Handicap— Devil's Own. The Visitors' Plate—Estrella. The Hunt Cup—Ballet Girl." Mr. Gill folded up the newspaper. "Got 'em all down? No mistakes, you know. That's six races—that'll be enough for you; you'll have made your pot by then—and what a pot it will be!" Mr. Major, as he echoed the other's words, still smiled "Yes, what a pot it will be!"
III.
"Yes, what a pot it will be!"
The words were still ringing in Mr. Major's ears when, on the morrow, he went down by train to that suburban racecourse. He had not carried out Mr. Gill's advice to the bitter end; he had not stolen, but he had begged and borrowed. He had applied for help in as many quarters as he could manage in the limited time at his disposal. He had told some tall tales to get it too. He had pledged his credit to the straining-point. He had in his pockets a sum of money which for him was fabulous. If he lost it he would be without a farthing in the world, almost without the hope of one.
He was quite aware that he was mad, that was the joke of it. No one knew better than he that for a
