de. I summoned my two partners to
a conference that afternoon. Somewhat to my surprise they seemed
cheerful. "Things are not so bad as they look," they said. "We have a
real 'dead bird' for the Melbourne Cup. We are going to borrow every
penny we can, pledge any credit we have with the bookmakers, and on
Tuesday evening, after the race, we shall have enough to pay our
liabilities on the _Tissue_ and plenty more besides. So cheer up; just
raise as much money as you can, and we shall put it all on on Monday
evening. On the Tuesday, the morning of the race, we will print twenty
thousand copies of the _Tissue_ with the name of the winner. We will
scatter the _Tissue_ all over the city and the race-course. The public
will back him for all they are worth, for he is a good horse. He may
shorten in price. If so we can lay off and stand on velvet."

This cheered me up a good deal. Their confidence in their plan was
catching. So we went to Scott's, after all, had a bottle, and I went
home, calculating what my third share of our losses in the _Tissue_ would
amount to, and how much ready cash I could lay my hands on to back our
tip so as to balance the account. I was not the least ambitious to make a
fortune. All I wanted was to get clean clear of my journalistic
enterprise and cease to be the proprietor, editor and publisher of a
newspaper.

I put aside my worries for the week-end. As a matter of fact, three of
our tips out of six races came off on the Saturday, which gave the public
considerable confidence in our selection for the winner of the Cup on the
Tuesday. Then, casting sorrows to the winds, I arranged for a quiet
week-end down at Sorrento. The weather was hot; Sorrento beach was
delightful. The lapping waves on the beach were fresh and briny; Nature
smiled, and I put worries away.

Then came Monday. It was the evening we were to put our money on our
horse, our pick, nay, our "dead bird" for the Cup. We three met at the
office. Our office boy, rather a wag in his way, had decorated my office
table with flowers. My two partners, who seemed to me to have spent the
week-end without any sleep, visiting training stables, waiting for the
first streaks of dawn to watch the early Sunday and Monday morning
gallops, and doing all that is expected of racing touts, were more than
convinced of the certainty of their choice. There was nothing in it but
"Mata." "Mata" could not be beaten. The race was all over. "Mata,"
however, was a