To set against these sums (in which he had not counted his current trainer’s bill, and the expenses, which he could not calculate, of the divorce suit), he had, first, a bank balance which he might still overdraw another twenty pounds; secondly, the Ambler and two bad selling platers; and thirdly (more considerable item), X, or that which he might, or indeed must, win over the Ambler’s race this afternoon.

Whatever else, it was not pluck that was lacking in the character of George Pendyce.  This quality was in his fibre, in the consistency of his blood, and confronted with a situation which, to some men, and especially to men not brought up on the hereditary plan, might have seemed desperate, he exhibited no sign of anxiety or distress.  Into the consideration of his difficulties he imported certain principles:  (1) He did not intend to be posted at Tattersalls.  Sooner than that he would go to the Jews; the entail was all he could look to borrow on; the Hebrews would force him to pay through the nose. (2) He did not intend to show the white feather, and in backing his horse meant to “go for the gloves.” (3) He did not intend to think of the future; the thought of the present was quite bad enough.

The train bounded and swung as though rushing onwards to a tune, and George sat quietly in his corner.

Amongst his fellows in the carriage was the Hon. Geoffrey Winlow, who, though not a racing-man, took a kindly interest in our breed of horses, which by attendance at the principal meetings he hoped to improve.

“Your horse going to run, George?”

George nodded.

“I shall have a fiver on him for luck.  I can’t afford to bet.  Saw your mother at the Foxholme garden-party last week.  You seen them lately?”

George shook his head and felt an odd squeeze:  at his heart.

“You know they had a fire at old Peacock’s farm; I hear the Squire and Barter did wonders.  He’s as game as a pebble, the Squire.”

Again George nodded, and again felt that squeeze at his heart.

“Aren’t they coming to town this season?”

“Haven’t heard,” answered George.  “Have a cigar?”

Winlow took the cigar, and cutting it with a small penknife, scrutinised George’s square face with his leisurely eyes.  It needed a physiognomist to penetrate its impassivity.  Winlow thought to himself: 

‘I shouldn’t be surprised if what they say about old George is true.’ . . .  “Had a good meeting so far?”

“So-so.”

They parted on the racecourse.  George went at once to see his trainer and thence into Tattersalls’ ring.  He took with him that equation with X, and sought the society of two gentlemen quietly dressed, one of whom was making a note in a little book with a gold pencil.  They greeted him respectfully, for it was to them that he owed the bulk of that seventeen hundred and ninety-five pounds.

“What price will you lay against my horse?”