d on a bookmaker's board. Then it dawned upon me
that "Mrs. Waller" was a horse, and, thinking further upon the matter, I
evolved the idea that my friend's advice, expressed in more becoming
language, was "Back 'Mrs. Waller' for as much as you can possibly
afford."

"Thank you," I said to myself, "I have backed cast-iron certainties
before. Next time I bet upon a horse I shall make the selection by
shutting my eyes and putting a pin through the card."

But the seed had taken root. My friend's words surged in my brain. The
birds passing overhead twittered, "Put your shirt on 'Mrs. Waller.'"

I reasoned with myself. I reminded myself of my few former ventures. But
the craving to put, if not my shirt, at all events half a sovereign on
"Mrs. Waller" only grew the stronger the more strongly I battled against
it. I felt that if "Mrs. Waller" won and I had nothing on her, I should
reproach myself to my dying day.

I was on the other side of the course. There was no time to get back to
the enclosure. The horses were already forming for the start. A few
yards off, under a white umbrella, an outside bookmaker was shouting his
final prices in stentorian tones. He was a big, genial-looking man, with
an honest red face.

"What price 'Mrs. Waller'?" I asked him.

"Fourteen to one," he answered, "and good luck to you."

I handed him half a sovereign, and he wrote me out a ticket. I crammed
it into my waistcoat pocket, and hurried off to see the race. To my
intense astonishment "Mrs. Waller" won. The novel sensation of having
backed the winner so excited me that I forgot all about my money, and it
was not until a good hour afterwards that I recollected my bet.

Then I started off to search for the man under the white umbrella. I
went to where I thought I had left him, but no white umbrella could I
find.

Consoling myself with the reflection that my loss served me right for
having been fool enough to trust an outside "bookie," I turned on my heel
and began to make my way back to my seat. Suddenly a voice hailed me:--

"Here you are, sir. It's Jack Burridge you want. Over here, sir."

I looked round, and there was Jack Burridge at my elbow.

"I saw you looking about, sir," he said, "but I could not make you hear.
You was looking the wrong side of the tent."

It was pleasant to find that his honest face had not belied him.

"It is very good of you," I said; "I had given up all hopes of seeing
you. Or," I