"He's a good 'un, I should say. That's Milk-O, the favourite." "Let's back him." "Wait, here's another. That's Midsummer Moon, the betting's 100 to 1 against him." "What does that mean?" "It means that he's a rank outsider." "Then we mustn't put our money on him." "I've known outsiders win splendidly, and, of course, if they do, their backers get thundering odds. If we put our money on Milk-O and he wins we're only in for five shillings each, but if Midsummer Moon wins for us, why, we get over twelve pounds." "Oh!" gasped Tony. Her eyes grew round. "Over twelve pounds"--that would mean all sorts of splendours--a new hockey-stick, a real spliced beauty instead of the silly unspliced thing her father thought "good enough for a girl"; she would be able to get that wonderful illustrated edition of the _Idylls of the King_, which she had seen in Gladys Gates' home and admired so much; and directly she went back to school she could give a gorgeous midnight feast--a feast of the superior order, with lemonade and veal-and-ham pies, not one of those scratch affairs at which you ate only buns and halfpenny meringues and drank a concoction of acid-drops dissolved in the water-jug. Nigel saw the enthusiasm growing on her face. "Well, would you like to put your money on Midsummer Moon? Of course you're more likely to lose, but if you win, you'll make a good thing out of it." "Do you think he'll win?" "I can't say--but it's a sporting chance." "I think it's worth the risk," said Tony in a low, thrilled voice. He looked at her intently. "I always like to see any one ready to back an outsider." "Don't people generally?" "No--and nor will you, perhaps, when you're older." She gave him her half-crown, and he disappeared with it into the crowd, having first carefully put her next a group of respectable farmers' wives. In some ways, thought Tony, he was just as particular as father. She wished he would let her go with him into the ring. He came back in a few moments. Then suddenly the bell clanged. "They're off!" Silence dropped on the babel almost disconcertingly. Opera-glasses flashed towards the start, rows of heads and bodies hung over the rail, Tony's breath came in short gasps, so did Nigel's--he was desperately anxious for that outsider to win. As they had no glasses they could not see which colours led at the bend, but as the horses swung into the straight, there were shouts of "Milk-O!--Milk-O!" "Damn the brute!" said Nigel, which gave Tony another thrill of new experience. She had actually spent the afternoon with a man who swore! "Milk-O!--Milk-O!" "Spreadeagle!" shouted some one. Then there were more shouts of "Spreadeagle!" "Milk-O!"--"Spreadeagle!"--the yells were deafening--then suddenly changed into a mixture of cheers and groans, as the favourite dashed by the post. "And--where's Midsummer Moon?" gasped poor Tony, as the field clattered in.