“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.

“That is it, exactly.  I must back Pocket Book for first place.  This is a sure tip—­I can depend upon it.”

“Then send to the fellow you bet with, and let him put you on Pocket Book.”

“That is just it, Jack—­the bookmaker wouldn’t take a bet from me.”

“Why ever not?” said Jack, mystified.

“Because I’m a minor—­I’m under age.”

“Then how do you manage?” said Jack.

“Why, I bet through another man.”

“I see,” said Jack, for this was but another edition of his own little adventures.  “And that man——­”

“Is Raffles,” said Acton, quietly.

Jack bounced out of his chair as if he had been stung.  “That beast!” he gasped.

“Raffles?” said Acton, with a slow smile.  “I didn’t know he was a beast.”

“He is the meanest skunk alive,” said Jack.  He added fervently, “Acton, have no dealings with that fellow.  He is an abominable sharper.”