How
he had laughed when young Norton told him in boyish confidence that
there was a horse named Siren in his father's stables which would win
the Goodwood Cup; how, having gone down to see Norton's people when
the long vacation began, he had seen Siren daily, and had talked of
her until two every morning in the smoking-room, and had then staid up
two hours later to watch her take her trial spin over the downs. He
remembered how they used to stamp back over the long grass wet with
dew, comparing watches and talking of the time in whispers, and said
good night as the sun broke over the trees in the park. And then just
at this time of all others, when the horse was the only interest of
those around him, from Lord Norton and his whole household down to the
youngest stable-boy and oldest gaffer in the village, he had come into
his money.
And then began the then and still inexplicable plunge into gambling,
and the wagering of greater sums than the owner of Siren dared to risk
himself, the secret backing of the horse through commissioners all
over England, until the boy by his single fortune had brought the odds
against her from 60 to 0 down to 6 to 0. He recalled, with a thrill
that seemed to settle his nerves for the moment, the little black
specks at the starting-post and the larger specks as the horses turned
the first corner.
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