“Wait a bit,” he said. “You have had your innings. My turn now. I can’t give it words as you do; but I can come to the point. And, by the Lord, I’ll fix you to it! In ten days or a fortnight from this I’m going into training for the Foot-Race at Fulham. Do you say I shall break down?” “You will probably get through your training.” “Shall I get through the race?” “You may _possibly_ get through the race. But if you do--” “If I do?” “You will never run another.” “And never row in another match?” “Never.” “I have been asked to row in the Race, next spring; and I have said I will. Do you tell me, in so many words, that I sha’n’t be able to do it?” “Yes--in so many words.” “Positively?” “Positively.” “Back your opinion!” cried Geoffrey, tearing his betting-book out of his pocket. “I lay you an even hundred I’m in fit condition to row in the University Match next spring.” “I don’t bet, Mr. Delamayn.” With that final reply the surgeon walked away to the other end of the library. Lady Lundie (taking Blanche in custody) withdrew, at the same time, to return to the serious business of her invitations for the dinner. Geoffrey turned defiantly, book in hand, to his college friends about him. The British blood was up; and the British resolution to bet, which successfully defies common decency and common-law from one end of the country to the other, was not to be trifled with. “Come on!” cried Geoffrey. “Back the doctor, one of you!” Sir Patrick rose in undisguised disgust, and followed the surgeon. One, Two, and Three, invited to business by their illustrious friend, shook their thick heads at him knowingly, and answered with one accord, in one eloquent word--“Gammon!” “One of _you_ back him!” persisted Geoffrey, appealing to the two choral gentlemen in the back-ground, with his temper fast rising to fever heat. The two choral gentlemen compared notes, as usual. “We weren’t born yesterday, Smith?” “Not if we know it, Jones.” “Smith!” said Geoffrey, with a sudden assumption of politeness ominous of something unpleasant to come. Smith said “Yes?”--with a smile. “Jones!” Jones said “Yes?”--with a reflection of Smith. “You’re a couple of infernal cads--and you haven’t got a hundred pound between you!” “Come! come!” said Arnold, interfering for the first time. “This is shameful, Geoffrey!” “Why the”--(never mind what!)--“won’t they any of them take the bet?” “If you must be a fool,” returned Arnold, a little irritably on his side, “and if nothing else will keep you quiet, _I’ll_ take the bet.” “An even hundred on the doctor!” cried Geoffrey. “Done with you!” His highest aspirations were satisfied; his temper was in perfect order again. He entered the bet in his book; and made his excuses to Smith and Jones in the heartiest way. “No offense, old chaps! Shake hands!” The two choral gentlemen were enchanted with him. “The English aristocracy--eh, Smith?” “Blood and breeding--ah, Jones!”