TONY BACKS AN OUTSIDER
November came in cloth of gold--a hazy sunshine put yellow everywhere,
into the bleak rain-washed fields, the white, cold mirrors of ponds, the
brown heart of woods. Lingfield races were on the first of the
month--from noon onwards the race-trains clanked down from London, and
disgorged their sordid contents. The public-houses were full, the little
village, generally so pure and drowsy, woke up to its monthly
contamination. It was the last meeting of the flat-racing season, and
most of the "county" was present, crowding the paddock and the more
expensive enclosures, eating its lunch to the accompaniment of a band
too much engrossed in the betting for the interests of good music.
Nigel Furlonger met Tony Strife at the top of Wilderwick hill. He had
dressed himself with more care than usual--in the girl's interest he
must look respectable. Leonard and Janet had been immensely surprised
when he told them he meant to go to the races. The Furlonger
disreputableness owed some of its celebrity to the fact that it ran
along channels of its own, neglecting those approved by wealth and
fashion.
"Feel you've got too much cash?" jeered Leonard.
"I shan't do any betting to speak of."
"Don't you!" said Janey; "we're stony enough as things are."
"But I'm not bound to lose--I may win, and retrieve the family
fortunes."
"Look here, my boy," said Len, "you leave the family fortunes alone.
You've done too much in that line already."
Nigel coloured furiously--but the next moment his anger cooled; he had
been wonderfully gentler during the last few days. He turned, and
emptied his pockets on the table.
"There--take it all--except five bob for luck--and a half-crown for----"
He was going to have said "the little girl's tea," but stopped just in
time.
He occasionally wondered why he did not tell Len and Janet about Tony.
But he felt doubtful as to what they might say. They would never
understand how he could find such a comradeship congenial. Tony was only
sixteen, and lived a very different life from his. They might laugh--no,
they would not do that; more likely they would be anxious and
compassionate, they would think it one of the unhealthy results of
prison, they would be sorry for him, and he could not bear that they
should be sorry for what brought him so much happiness. Besides, he had
a natural habit of reserve--even before he went to prison he had kept
secrets from Len and Janey.
Tony was waiting for him when he reached their meeting-place. She wore a
plain dark coat and skirt, but she had put on a wide hat, with a wreath
of crimson leaves round it, and instead of plaiting her hair, she let it
stream over her shoulders, thick and sleek, without a curl. In her hand
she clutched a little purse.
"I'm going to bet on a horse," she said in an awe-struck voice.
"Which horse?"
"I don't know. I'll see when I get there."
"I'll try and find something pretty safe for you, and I'll have my money
on it too."
"Isn't it exciting!" whispered Tony. "What should I do if I met Mrs.
Arkwright or any of the mistresses!"
Mrs. Arkwright and the mistresses were not the people Furlonger dreaded
to meet.
He and Tony swung gaily along the cinder-track leading to the course. It
was deserted, except for a little knot at the starting gate. The girl
shrank rather close to him as they came into the crowd. The shouting
made her nervous and flustered--that people should make such a noise
over a shady thing like betting seemed to her extraordinary. She touched
Nigel's elbow, and showed him her purse, now open, and containing
half-a-crown.
"Which is the best horse?"
"I wish I knew."
"May I look at the card?"
He gave it to her. She seemed puzzled.
"How can I tell which horse to bet on?"
A man beside them laughed, and Nigel flushed indignantly.
"You can't tell much by the card; I'll go over to the ring in a moment,
and find out what the odds are. But as you don't want to put on more
than half-a-crown, I'd keep it till the big race, if I were you."
"Which is the big race?"
"The Lingfield Cup. It's the last--but we'll enjoy the others, even
though we've got nothing on 'em."
They enjoyed them thoroughly. Hanging over the rail, their shouts were
just as noisy and as desperate as if they had all their possessions at
stake. Tony was thrilled to the depths--the clamour and excitement in
the betting ring, the odd, disreputable people all round her,
surreptitiously exchanging shillings and horses' names--the clanging
bell, the shout of "They're off!" the flash of opera-glasses, the mad
rush by, the cheers for the winner ... all plunged her into an orgy of
excitement. She felt subtly wicked and daring, and also, when Nigel
began to explain the technicalities of racing, infinitely worldly-wise.
What would the girls at school say when they found out she knew the
meaning of "Ten to one, bar one," or "Money on both ways"? She wrote
such phrases down in her "nature note-book," which she carried about
with her to record botanical discoveries, birds seen, sunsets, and
equally blameless doings.
At last the time came for the Lingfield Cup. Tony's hands began to
quiver. Now was the moment when she should actually become a part of
that new world swinging round her. She would have her stake in the
game--and a big stake too, for half-a-crown meant more than a
fortnight's pocket-money. She looked nervously at Mr. Smith.
"We'll see 'em go past before we put our money on," said he, with a
calmness she thought unnatural. "You can tell a lot by the way a horse
canters up."
They leaned over the rail, and Tony gave a little cry at the first sight
of colours coming from the paddock.
"Here they are--oh, what a beautiful horse!"
"A bit short in the leg," said Nigel, "we won't put our money on him."
"What about that bay--the one coming now?"
"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.
"Never started, lady," said a stout policeman, who, being drafted in
from elsewhere, did not recognise Nigel as the young fellow on
ticket-of-leave who came to report himself every month at East
Grinstead.
"Oh, dear!" cried Tony, "we've lost our money."
"Never put your money on an outsider, lady," said the stout constable.
Nigel turned to her with an odd, beseeching look in his eyes.
"I'm sorry ... I'm dreadfully sorry. It's my fault--if it hadn't been
for me you'd have backed the favourite."
"Oh, it doesn't matter the very tiniest bit."
"But I'm so sorry--I feel a beast."
"Please don't. I've enjoyed myself awfully, and it's made the race ever
so much more exciting, having some money on it."
"All right!" had been sung out from the weighing-ground, and the crowd
was either pressing round the bookies, or dispersing along the course.
"We'd better go, I think," said Nigel, "you mustn't be late home."
"It's been perfectly ripping," and Tony suddenly slipped her warm gloved
hand into his. "It was so kind of you to take me."
"But I made you back an outsider."
"Oh, never mind about it--please don't."
She gave his hand a little squeeze as she spoke, and suddenly, over him
once again passed that thrill of great simplicity which he had
experienced first at Brambletye. He became dumb--quite dumb and simple,
with infinite rest in his heart.
They turned to leave, jostling their way through the crowd towards the
cinder-track. Soon the clamour and scramble were far behind, and they
found the little footpath that ran through the fields near Goatsluck
Farm.
"Which way are we going home?" asked Tony.
"We'll have tea before we go home. Will you come with me and have tea in
a cottage?"
"Oh, how ripping!..."
Nigel looked round him. A cottage belonging to Goatsluck Farm was close
at hand--one of those dwarfed, red cottages, where the windows gleam
like eyes under the steep roof.
"Let's ask there," he said, "perhaps we can have it in the garden."
The labourer's wife was only too glad of a little incident and
pence-earning. She laid a table for them by a clump of lilac bushes, now
bare. One or two chrysanthemums were still in bloom, and sent their damp
sweetness to the meal that Nigel and Tony had together. It was a very
plain meal--only bread and butter and tea, but simplicity and bread and
butter had now become vital things to Furlonger. Neither he nor Tony
spoke much, but their silences were no less happy than the words that
broke them.
The sun had set, a hazy crimson smeared the west, and above it hung one
or two dim stars. A little cold wind rustled suddenly in the bushes, and
fluttered the table-cloth. Tony's face was pale in the twilight, and her
eyes looked unnaturally large and dark. Then she and Nigel realised that
they were both leaning forward over the table, as if they had something
especially important to say to each other....
The wind dropped suddenly, and the fogs swept up and veiled the stars.
The crimson deepened to purple in the west.
"Are you cold?" asked Furlonger awkwardly, and drew back.
"No, thank you," said Tony, and leaned back too.
A few minutes later they rose to go. It was half-past five, and strange
shadows were in the lanes, where the ruts and puddles gleamed. An owl
called from Ashplats Wood. The November dusk had suddenly become chill.
Nigel slipped off his overcoat and wrapped it round Tony.
"I don't want it," he insisted. "Oh, what a funny little thing you
look!"
"It comes down right over my heels--it's ripping and warm."
They walked on in silence for about a quarter of a mile. Then the
distant throbbing of a car troubled the evening. It drew nearer, and
they stood aside to let it pass them in the narrow lane.
But instead of passing, it pulled up suddenly, and out jumped Sir
Gambier Strife.
Their surprise and dismay were so great that for a time they could not
use their tongues. Sir Gambier stood before them, his face flushed, his
mouth a little open, while the dusk and the arc-lights of the huge motor
had games with his figure, making it seem monstrous and misshapen.
"Father----" began Tony, and then stopped. She was really the least
disconcerted of the three, for she had only Mr. Smith to deal
with--surely the presence of such a knight could easily be explained and
forgiven. But the other two had to face the complication of Furlonger.
"What the----" broke from Strife, after the time-honoured formula of the
man who wants to swear, but objects on principle to swearing before
women.
The colour mounted on Nigel's face, from his neck to his cheeks, from
his cheeks to his forehead--and gradually his head drooped.
Tony turned to him with sublime assurance.
"Father, let me introduce Mr. Smith."
"Smith!"
Nigel opened his mouth to speak, but the words stuck to his tongue.
"You know about Mr. Smith," continued Tony, "how helpful he was at East
Grinstead----"
"He told you his name was Smith, did he?"
"Of course. I know him quite well now--he lives at Fan's Court, near
Blindley Heath, and...." Tony's voice trailed off. She wondered why Mr.
Smith did not speak for himself.
"You damn liar!" roared Strife, swinging round on Nigel.
"Father!"
"Sir Gambier, let me explain...."
"I won't hear a word. Explanation, indeed! What explanation can there
be?--you victimiser of innocent little girls!--Antoinette, get into the
car at once, and come home. Then we'll hear all the lies this
Furlonger's been cramming you with."
"Furlonger...."
The word came in a long gasp.
"Yes--Furlonger. That's his name. 'Smith,' indeed!"
"Father, he isn't Furlonger. Furlonger was quite different, short and
dark and dirty-looking."
"I tell you this is Furlonger--and he's quite dirty-looking enough for
me. Come along, Antoinette, I won't have you standing here."
"But you aren't Furlonger--are you, Mr. Smith?"
Her voice rang with entreaty and the first horror of doubt. Nigel
turned his eyes to hers and tried to plead with them; but they were not
understanding--he saw he had only the clumsy weapon of his tongue to
fight with.
"I am Furlonger," he said in a low voice.
There was a brief, electric pause. Tony had grown very white.
"Then who was that other man?--Why did you tell me your name was Smith?"
"I've no idea who the other fellow was, and I gave my name as Smith
because I felt sure you'd have heard of Furlonger."
"But why--why----"
"Come along, miss," interrupted Sir Gambier. "I won't have you talking
to this scoundrel."
"But I want to know why he told me all those lies."
Her face had grown hard as well as white.
"He had very good reasons, I'm sure," sneered Strife.
Nigel suddenly found his tongue.
"Tony!" he cried, "Tony!"
"What damned impudence is this?--'Tony' indeed! You'll not dare address
my daughter by that name, sir."
"Tony," repeated Nigel, too desperate to realise what he was calling
her. "I swear I never meant you any harm. I know it looks like it--but
you mustn't think so. I wanted to be your friend because--because you
didn't know of my disgrace, you treated me like a human being. You
talked to me about simple things--you made me feel good and clean when
I was with you. That's why I 'told you all these lies.'"
The girl began to tremble. Sir Gambier laughed.
"Tony--don't forsake me."
"Hold your tongue, sir," thundered Strife. "I won't have any more of
this. Get into the car, Antoinette."
He touched her arm, and for the first time she responded. She turned and
climbed into the car, still trembling, her head bowed, tears on her
cheek.
Nigel sprang on to the step.
"Tony--can't you forgive me? I didn't deceive you from any wrong motive.
Why do you look like that? Is it because I've been in prison?--I--I
suffered there...."
"Oh don't!" gasped the girl, "don't speak to me--I can't bear it. I--I'm
so dreadfully--disappointed."
His eyes searched her face for some pity or understanding. Instead he
saw only horror, pain, and something akin to fright.
"Don't!" she repeated.
Then he suddenly realised that she was too young to understand.
He fell back from the step, and covered his eyes.
Sir Gambier sprang into the driver's seat. Tony did not speak again. Her
father took the steering-wheel, and the car throbbed away into the dusk.
She made no protest, and only once looked back--at the man who still
stood in the middle of the lane, with his hands over his eyes.