"Oh, yes," he groaned; "Jack was always like lightning at planking down. He'd ride straight away and get every penny on. There, I'm getting in a regular fever. Out of training. I never used to worry when I stood to lose five times as much, and I won't worry now. I won't think I stand to lose four thou', but only that I stand to win forty, as I must, for with Josh Rowle up, the Sylphide must win in a canter. There's nothing been foaled yet that can touch her in these little races. There, Laura's out, and I'll have a cigar and calm down. Forty thou'! Shell never know--at least, I hope not, and, it will make me independent for a bit. But I won't do it any more. It would be tempting fortune; but with that extra in the bank I can stand my ground a little. Laura's a dear good woman, but too straight-laced. There's too much of this parish twaddle and charity-mongering. She's quite insane upon such matters, and with the independence that money will give me I can afford to stand up for myself. She talks about weaning me, and I've given up the hunting and the racecourse to humour her, so now she must drop some of her fads to favour me. We shall be a deal happier then." He dropped into a chair, feeling easier in his mind, and went on musing. "Yes," he said, "there's a lot a fellow ought to do, and the first thing after settling day I mean to attack this stewardship business. I'm about sick of that long, lean, lizardly humbug Trimmer. Hang his white choker and sanctified ways! He's a wolf in sheep's clothing, I'll swear. A hypocritical rascal! I'll swear I saw him leering at our pretty Jane, but if I told Laura she'd take his part. Ha, ha, ha! Capital!" he said half-aloud, as he indulged in a hearty fit of chuckling. "What a splendid idea. I can't quite see my way, but Mark's dead on the little lassie, and if I'm right and the lad can be enlightened, my word, I should like to see the fun! Judging by the way Mark can handle his fives, and the fire such a notion would give him, I shouldn't like to be in Master Trimmer's shoes, to wear the phiz he would have when the lad had done with him. Yes, that would settle Master Trimmer, if, of course, I am right, and he is the confounded mawworm I believe him to be. "Well, that would be an improvement. Then there's Master Syd. That young dog's gammoning his aunt shamefully, I'm sure. But it's all her own fault. She treats him as if he were a child instead of a lad of eighteen and it isn't natural for a boy to be dragged into these parish meetings, and to be set to read reports of this society and that society, and checked in his natural desire for a bit of honest, manly sport. Why, if that boy could have had his way he'd have been at the races to-day. Going fishing, I suppose. Well, that's not so bad, but I almost wonder he's allowed to do that.