Phil, of course, could say nothing to Corker, for he knew it would be hopeless. And Acton knew that Phil's pride could never bear the idea of Jack--a Bourne--being expelled from the old place. Therefore he would keep silence. I don't think I used the wrong adjective when I said it was subtle. The only question was--could he so manage that Jack would go? And Acton for good reasons was pretty certain that he could. Jack was staidly taking a turn up and down the pavement with Grim when, on passing by Biffen's house, he heard a whistle from one of the windows, and, on looking up, he saw Acton. "I want you, Bourne, for five minutes--if you can spare them." "Of course he can," said Grim, _sotto voce_. "Aren't you a monitor? Jack, my boy, Acton wants to knight you--or something. You'll find his boots in the bottom cupboard, if you want to black 'em very much. I suppose, being only a common or garden fag, my feelings aren't to be considered for a moment. When you were--for once--talking sensibly for a Corker fag, you are called away to----" "Cork all that frivol, old man, till you see me at tea," said Jack, moving into Biffen's yard. When Jack was comfortably installed in a chair, Acton bolted his door, and, somewhat to young Bourne's surprise, seemed rather in a fix how to start what he had to say. The locking of the door was unusual, and this, combined with Acton's grave face and hesitating manner, made Jack a trifle uneasy. Whatever was coming? "I say, Bourne," at last said his friend, "do you know anything about betting?" "Betting!" said Jack, with a vivid blush. "About as much as most of the fellows know of it. Not more." "Well, do you mind reading this?" He handed Jack a slip of paper which contained such cryptic sentences as: "Grape Shot gone wrong, though he will run. Pocket Book is the tip. If you're on Grape Shot, hedge on best terms you can get," etc. "I understand that," said Jack, "you've--if this means you--you've backed the wrong horse." "Exactly," said Acton. "I backed Grape Shot for the Lincolnshire Handicap, and he hasn't a ghost of a chance now. Gone wrong." "I see," said Jack, absolutely staggered that Acton, a monitor, should tell him, a fag, that he was betting on horse-racing. "I see, young 'un, that you seem surprised at my little flutter, but, by Jove! this will have to be my last. Do you know, Bourne, I'm in an awful hole." "I'm very sorry to hear it," said Jack, with no end of concern. "You see, if Pocket Book pulls the handicap off before I've time to trim my sails, I lose a lot." "Much," said Jack, "_for you?_" "Thirty pounds." "Whew!" whistled Bourne. "I get a good allowance from home, Bourne, but I'm bound to say thirty pounds would cripple me." "Rather," said Jack, with a gasp. "Of course, if the worst did come to the worst, I'd have to apply to home; but there would be, as you might guess, no end of a row about it." "Then you must hedge," said Jack.