“Is his mother living?”

“Yes.”

“I will write to her myself.  In the mean time, somebody must take him home.  He has plenty of friends here.  Where are they?”

He looked out of the window as he spoke.  A throng of people had gathered round the pavilion, waiting to hear the latest news.  Mr. Speedwell directed Perry to go out and search among them for any friends of his employer whom he might know by sight.  Perry hesitated, and scratched his head for the second time.

“What are you waiting for?” asked the surgeon, sharply.  “You know his friends by sight, don’t you?”

“I don’t think I shall find them outside,” said Perry.

“Why not?”

“They backed him heavily, Sir—­and they have all lost.”

Deaf to this unanswerable reason for the absence of friends, Mr. Speedwell insisted on sending Perry out to search among the persons who composed the crowd.  The trainer returned with his report.  “You were right, Sir.  There are some of his friends outside.  They want to see him.”

“Let two or three of them in.”

Three came in.  They stared at him.  They uttered brief expressions of pity in slang.  They said to Mr. Speedwell, “We wanted to see him.  What is it—­eh?”

“It’s a break-down in his health.”

“Bad training?”

“Athletic Sports.”

“Oh!  Thank you.  Good-evening.”

Mr. Speedwell’s answer drove them out like a flock of sheep before a dog.  There was not even time to put the question to them as to who was to take him home.

“I’ll look after him, Sir,” said Perry.  “You can trust me.”

“I’ll go too,” added the trainer’s doctor; “and see him littered down for the night.”

(The only two men who had “hedged” their bets, by privately backing his opponent, were also the only two men who volunteered to take him home!)

They went back to the sofa on which he was lying.  His bloodshot eyes were rolling heavily and vacantly about him, on the search for something.  They rested on the doctor—­and looked away again.  They turned to Mr. Speedwell—­and stopped, riveted on his face.  The surgeon bent over him, and said, “What is it?”

He answered with a thick accent and laboring breath—­uttering a word at a time:  “Shall—­I—­die?”

“I hope not.”

“Sure?”

“No.”

He looked round him again.  This time his eyes rested on the trainer.  Perry came forward.

“What can I do for you, Sir?”

The reply came slowly as before.  “My—­coat—­pocket.”

“This one, Sir?”

“No.”

“This?”

“Yes.  Book.”

The trainer felt in the pocket, and produced a betting-book.

“What’s to be done with this.  Sir?”

“Read.”

The trainer held the book before him; open at the last two pages on which entries had been made.  He rolled his head impatiently from side to side of the sofa pillow.  It was plain that he was not yet sufficiently recovered to be able to read what he had written.