UNEARNED INCREMENT
Lady Adela and I studiously avoided all reference to gardening or diet
upon our six-mile drive to Laxley, and reached the course in a condition
of comparative amicability.
We arrived just in time to hear the roar that greeted the result of the
first race.
"I wonder what has won," I said, as the victoria bumped over the grass.
"I have never been greatly interested in racing," said Lady Adela
majestically. "My father was devoted to it, and so is my brother
Rumborough. But I never know one horse from another. For instance, I
have not the faintest notion which of the two animals now drawing us is
Romulus and which is Remus, although Dick says it is impossible to
mistake them. But then Dick has a name for every animal in the estate.
Ah! there is the motor, against the railings! That is rather a relief.
Dear Constance is an excellent driver, Dick says, but she is inclined to
be venturesome."
"Miss Damer appears to be a lady of exceptional talents," I observed.
"Yes, indeed!" agreed Lady Adela, with, for her, quite remarkable
enthusiasm. "It is a pity she has no money."
I do not know whether the last remark was intended as a lamentation or
an intimation. But I understood now why Miss Damer was only First
Reserve.
I changed the subject.
"I suppose you do not bet, Lady Adela?"
"I make it a rule," replied my hostess precisely, "to put
half-a-sovereign on any horse whose owner we happen to know. One should
always support one's friends, should not one?"
I was still pondering in my heart Lady Adela's system of turf
speculation, wondering whether if every animal in the race had belonged
to a friend she would have backed it, and in any case what benefit or
otherwise (beyond shortening the price) one confers upon an owner by
backing his horses at all, when the victoria, rolling heavily, came to
anchor astern of the motor, and Hilda Beverley, Sylvia, and Crick, who
had been standing upon the seats to view the race, turned to greet us.
"I had no idea racing was so exciting, dear Lady Adela," exclaimed Miss
Beverley. "I came armed with a copy of 'The Nation,' prepared to spend
the afternoon in the back seat of the car, and here I am quite
thrilled."
"I am so glad, dear Hilda," said Lady Adela graciously. "Dick would
have been disappointed if you had not enjoyed yourself. Where is that
boy, by the way?"
"He and Connie have gone to collect Mr. Carmyle's winnings," said
Sylvia.
"Has--ha! h'm!--Plumstone won, then?" I enquired, timorously avoiding
Lady Adela's eye.
"Yes, worse luck!" replied Mr. Crick lugubriously. "We were all on
Mercutio. But Miss Damer stuck to it that Plumstone was the right
horse, and made Dicky put on five shillings for her and five for you.
They got three to one, I believe."
At this moment Dicky and Miss Damer returned from the ring, and I was
duly presented with six half-crowns.
"Three-quarters of an hour till the next race," announced Dicky.
"Better have lunch."
By this time the whole party had become infected with that fierce spirit
of cupidity which assails respectable Britons when they find themselves
in the neighbourhood of that singularly uncorrupt animal, the horse; and
the succeeding half-hour was devoted by seven well-born and well-to-do
persons to an elaborate consideration of the best means of depriving a
hard-working and mainly deserving section of the community of as large a
sum of money as possible.
Our symposium resulted in a far from unanimous decision. Lady Adela,
having studied the list of owners' names upon the card, handed me a
sovereign and instructed me to seek out a book-maker who should be both
cheap and respectable, and back the Earl of Moddlewick's Extinguisher
and Mr. Hector McCorquodale's Inverary. Mr. Crick, the expert of the
party, let fall dark hints on the subject of a quadruped named The
Chicken. Dicky and I decided to wait until the numbers went up.
"Dick, you must positively back a horse for me this time," announced
Miss Beverley.
"You are getting on, Hilda!" replied The Freak, obviously pleased to
find his beloved in sympathy with his simple pleasures.
Miss Beverley handed him five shillings.
"And if the horse does n't win I shall never speak to you again," she
concluded; and from the tone of her voice I could not help feeling that
she meant what she said.
"What is your selection this time, Connie?" asked Sylvia.
Miss Damer produced a dirty pink envelope and began to open it.
Dicky laughed.
"Connie has been patronising a tipster," he said.
"I got this," explained Miss Damer, "from a man on the course. His name
was Lively. He was trying to earn an honest living, he said, by
supplying reliable stable information to sportsmen; but he did n't seem
to be getting on very well, poor thing! People were standing all round
him in a ring, laughing, and nobody would buy any of his envelopes,
although he had given lots of them the winner of the first race for
nothing. Just then he caught sight of Dicky and me standing on the edge
of the crowd. He pushed his way towards us, and said that if I bought
one of his tips, he knew it would bring him luck. He said," Miss Damer
added with a smile of genuine gratification, "that I was a beautiful
young lady. So I bought one of his envelopes, and after that a lot of
other people did, too."
Dicky grinned.
"Yes; that was the point at which we ought to have passed along
quietly," he said.
"Did n't you?" I asked.
"Bless you, no! Connie had n't nearly finished. She and her friend were
as thick as thieves by this time. The conversation was just beginning
to interest them."
"What did you find to talk about, Miss Damer?" asked Hilda Beverley
curiously.
"I could n't help wondering," Connie continued, "whether he had a wife
and children to support; so I asked him if he was married. He said he
was afraid he was, but if ever he became a widower he would let me know.
We left after that."
"Constance, _dear_ child!" began Lady Adela, amid unseemly laughter.
"It was all right, Lady Adela," Miss Damer assured her. "They were
quite a nice crowd, and I had Dicky with me."
"You are a great deal better able to take care of yourself than I am,
old lady," said The Freak admiringly.
I saw Miss Beverley's fine eyes rest disapprovingly for a moment upon
her philogynistic swain. Then some one asked:--
"What is your tip, Connie?"
Miss Damer scanned her paper.
"It's not very well written," she said. "Perry--Perry--something."
"Periander?" I suggested. "He is on the card."
"Yes--Periander. I shall back him."
"Rank outsider," said Mr. Crick's warning voice.
"I shall back him all the same," persisted Miss Damer, with a little nod
of finality. "It would n't be fair to Lively's luck if I did n't. Mr.
Carmyle, will you come and find a bookmaker with me?"
We departed together, and pushed our way through the crowd to the ring.
On our journey we passed Miss Damer's protege, still dispensing reliable
information in a costume composed of check trousers, an officer's
scarlet mess-jacket, stained and bleached almost beyond recognition by
the accidents of many race-courses, and a large bowler hat adorned with
a peacock's feather. A broken nose made him conveniently recognisable
by those (if such there were) who might desire to consult him a second
time. Miss Damer, for whom castaways and lame dogs in general seemed to
have a peculiar fascination, showed a disposition to linger again; but a
timely reminder as to the necessity of getting our money on at once took
us past the danger point and saved me from participating in a public
appearance.
Presently we found ourselves amid the book-making fraternity. The
numbers of the runners had gone up, and lungs of brass were proclaiming
the odds in fierce competition.
"What does 'six to four the field' mean?" enquired Miss Damer. "I
always forget."
I turned to answer the question, but found that it had not been
addressed to me. My companion was now engaged in animated conversation
with a total stranger, and for the next five minutes I stood
respectfully aloof while the pair discussed _seriatim_ the prospects of
each horse upon the card.
"He says Periander is an outsider," Miss Damer informed me, as the man
moved away, awkwardly raising his hat. "But I think I must back him.
Cornucopia is a certainty for this race, he told me." ("A pinch" was
what the gentleman had said: I overheard him.) "You had better put
something on him."
I meekly assented, and after Miss Damer had found her bookmaker we
adventured ten shillings upon Periander and Cornucopia respectively.
Public estimation of the former animal's form was such as to secure odds
of ten to one for Miss Damer. I was informed that the two steeds owned
by the Earl of Moddlewick and Mr. Hector McCorquodale were not running,
so a Diogenean search for Lady Adela's cheap and respectable bookmaker
was not required of me.
Suddenly a bell rang.
"They're off!" exclaimed Miss Damer. "We can't cross the course now.
Come on to this stand."
We raced up a flight of steps, and presently found ourselves on a long
balcony in a position which commanded a view of the entire course.
"Your jockey," announced Miss Damer to me, "is pale blue with chocolate
sleeves and cap. Mine is red, with white hoops. Can you see them
anywhere?"
"I can see mine," I said. "He is having a chat with the starter at
present, but I have no doubt he will tear himself away presently."
"But the others are halfway home!" cried Miss Damer in dismay.
"So I perceive."
"You poor man!"
"Never mind!" I replied quite cheerfully. There is something very
comforting about being called a poor man by some people. "Where is your
friend?"
"There, in that bunch of four. He is going well, is n't he? That's the
favourite, Mustard Seed, lying back."
"I expect his jockey will let him out after he gets into the straight,"
I said.
"If he isn't very careful," observed Miss Damer with perfect truth, "he
will get shut out altogether."
The horses swept round the last corner and headed up the final stretch
in a thundering bunch. Suddenly Miss Damer turned to me.
"This is fearfully dull for you," she said.
"Not at all," I assured her. "My horse has just started."
"Come in with me on Periander," pleaded my companion. "You can only
lose five shillings."
I closed with her offer by a nod. Some partnerships can be accepted
without negotiation or guarantee.
Suddenly the crowd gave a roar. The favourite had bored his way through
the ruck at last. He shot ahead. The noise became deafening.
"There goes our half-sovereign!" shrieked Miss Damer despairingly in my
ear.
"Wait a minute!" I bellowed. "Periander is n't done for yet."
There came a yet mightier roar from the crowd, and as we leaned
precariously over the balustrade and craned our necks up the course, we
perceived that a horse whose jockey wore red and white hoops was
matching the favourite stride for stride.
"Periander! Periander!" yelled those who stood to win at ten to one
against.
"Mustard Seed!" howled those who stood to lose at six to four on.
But they howled in vain. The flail-like whips descended for the last
time; there was a flash of red and white; and Periander was first past
the post by a length.
We descended into the ring and sought out our bookmaker. There was no
crowd round him: backers of Periander had not been numerous; and it was
with a friendly and indulgent smile that he handed Miss Damer her
half-sovereign and a five-pound note.
"Can you give me two-pounds-ten for this?" she asked, handing me the
note.
It was useless to protest, so I humbly pocketed my unearned increment,
and we left the ring in search of the rest of our party.
"I have never won gold before," announced the small capitalist beside
me, slipping the coins into her chain-purse--"let alone paper." Her
smiling face was flushed with triumph.
"I think I know who will rejoice at your victory to-morrow," I said,
"and participate in the fruits thereof."
"Who?"
"The coachman's children, the gardener's children, the lodge-keeper's
children--"
But Miss Damer was not listening.
"Poor Lively!" she said suddenly. "He gave me that tip, and yet he
could n't afford to back the horse himself."
"Tipsters do not as a rule follow their own selections," I said. "I
don't suppose, either, that Periander's was the only name contained in
those pink envelopes of his. You really ought not--"
"Why, there he is!" exclaimed Miss Damer, upon whom, I fear, my little
homily had been entirely thrown away.
We had made a detour to avoid the crowd on our way back to the carriage,
and were now crossing an unfrequented part of the course. My companion
pointed, and following the direction of her hand I beheld, projecting
above a green hillock twenty yards away, a battered bowler hat,
surmounted by a peacock's feather.
"Come this way," commanded Miss Damer.
I followed her round to the other side of the hillock. There lay the
retailer of stable secrets, resting from his labours before the next
race. Apparently business was not prospering. His dirty, villainous
face looked unutterably pinched and woe-begone. His eyes were closed.
Obviously he had not lunched. His broken nose appeared more concave
than ever.
At our approach he raised his head listlessly.
"Go on, and wait for me, please," said Miss Damer in a low voice.
I obeyed. One always obeyed when Miss Damer spoke in that tone, and
evidently some particularly private business was in hand. Already the
child's impulsive fingers were fumbling with the catch of her chain
purse.
I took up my stand a considerable distance away. I had no fears of
Lively. One does not snatch at the purse of an angel from heaven. My
only concern was that the angel's generosity might outrun her
discretion.
I could hear her making a breathless little speech, but Lively said
never a word. I was not altogether surprised. Probably he was afraid
of waking up.
Presently she came back to me, smiling farewell at her pensioner over
her shoulder.
"You'll give one of them to your wife, won't you?" was the last thing I
heard her say.
Then she rejoined me, and we walked on.
"How much money," I enquired severely, "will you have left out of your
winnings, after providing for me and your other friend and the families
of the coachman and the gardener and the lodge-keeper?"
Again Miss Damer was not attending.
"Poor Lively!" she said softly.
There were tears in her eyes.