George Barton pushed open the swinging doors, and came into the bank.
Several people were standing at the counter--a couple of tradesmen,
an old lady, an errand boy--while the cashier, an elderly,
harassed-looking man, was counting over a large heap of silver, which
one of the former had just paid in. He looked up as Barton entered,
and nodded in the direction of the other customers. Barton lifted
the slab that led through into the office, and walking up to a side
door with a frosted-glass panel, opened it, and hung up his hat upon
a peg inside. Then he came to the counter, and began to attend to
the people who were waiting. His work was characterized by a
mechanical swiftness noticeably absent in the movements of his
elderly _confrère_; so by the time that the latter had satisfied
himself that the pile of silver in front of him corresponded with the
amount on the slip, Barton had settled the requirements of the
remaining customers. The cashier made an entry in his "scroll,"
filled the credit slip, and then, after carefully wiping his pen and
laying it on the desk, turned to Barton.
"I am going to lunch now," he said. "If you have time, you might put
a few of these entries through"--he pointed to a twisted-up heap of
cheques and credit slips under a paper-weight. "We have been rather
busy while you were out," he added.
"All right," answered Barton, without looking up from the book in
which he was writing.
For the next quarter of an hour the bank was practically deserted;
the silence only being broken by the scratching of pens, or an
occasional sigh from one of the two junior clerks, who were working
at a desk behind. Outside, the world was bathed in the golden
sunshine of a perfect June day; but within, it was merely another hot
afternoon dragging on its ordinary monotonous round. Barton soon
entered up the pile of arrears bequeathed him by his companion, and
added up the latter's scroll for him. One of the senior clerks came
in from the manager's room with a pile of papers, threw them down on
the desk, and sauntered up to where he was working.
"How goes it?" asked the new-comer, taking out a pen-knife and
beginning to clean his nails.
"All through, up to date," said Barton. "Do you want to get out
early?"
"Well, I do rather, if you can manage it." He glanced over the
scrolls. "I see you have been giving Weary Willy a hand."
Barton smiled. "You would be here till six if I didn't. It is quite
time the poor old chap got his pension."
"They ought to make you cashier," said the other. "Furze wants to go
at the end of the year, if they will let him. Why don't you apply
for it?"
Barton glanced round to see if they were overheard, and, speaking in
a lower voice, answered, "That is just what I did last week. The
manager--he is a little brick, Blackmore--sent up a very strong
letter urging my fitness, and all that sort of thing; but the
directors wrote back and said I was too young. Rather sickening,
wasn't it?"
"Why don't you go in for something else?" asked his companion. "With
your brains you are wasted in a bank. Any fool can do this sort of
thing."
Barton flushed slightly. He was twenty-one, and the compliment was
obviously genuine. "It is all very well, Steele," he said; "but what
can I do? I haven't got a halfpenny in the world, and I have had to
keep myself ever since I entered this confounded hole. I shan't stay
in it a minute longer than I can help, but at present--" he shrugged
his shoulders.
"It is a bit off, isn't it?" agreed Steele sympathetically. "I
should leave myself, if I could do anything else. By the way, do you
want a tip for the Manchester Cup?"
"Well, that's curious!" said Barton. "You are the second to-day."
"Second what?"
"Why, I have just had a letter from a man offering to give me a tip.
What's yours?"
"'Kildonen.' It's a dead cert. What's yours?"
"I don't know till this evening. The whole thing is rather quaint.
The other night I was coming down Shaftesbury Avenue very late, when
I saw a fellow being set on by two or three rough-looking brutes, so
I ran across to lend him a hand. He was very grateful, and turned
out to be McFadden, the tipster--you know, the chap who is always
advertising in the sporting papers. Well, he insisted on taking my
name and address, and this morning I got a letter from him asking me
to dine at the Troc. He said he could put me on to a good thing for
the Manchester Cup."
"You back 'Kildonen,'" said Steele sceptically. "I got it straight
from my brother, who is a pal of the trainer. Ten to one McFadden
will put you on to some rotter."
"We shall see," answered Barton, getting up to attend to a customer
who had just come in. "At all events, I will let you know what he
says."
* * * * * * *
Barton lit his cigar and, leaning back in his comfortable seat,
looked round the big restaurant with a quiet satisfaction born of an
excellent dinner, a bottle of good champagne, and a really
first-class Larranaga. Barton's companion, a big, sun-burnt man,
with a large moustache, twinkling black eyes, and a face heavily
pitted with the remnants of smallpox, waited until the men serving
liqueurs and coffee had moved on to the next table, and then resumed
the conversation.
"I didn't want those chaps to get hold of what I was saying," he
explained; "they know me, and it would be all over London to-morrow."
Barton leaned slightly across the table towards him, and lowering his
voice, McFadden continued: "It's the chance of a lifetime. Not a
soul witnessed the trial except Rainsford and Burch, and you can
trust them to keep it dark. They want the money; besides, Rainsford
is the sort of man who would cut his throat rather than give away a
tip; and I know Burch has told no one but myself. Even Relf, the
jockey, thinks that he was carrying about ten pounds less than he
was; so you can take it from me that, with the exception of us four,
there isn't a living soul who has an idea of what 'Mountain Lady' can
do. She will start at twenty to one, and unless she is left at the
post or drops dead on the course, nothing will get near her. Why,
just think, man, according to the trial, that would put 'Night-jar'
in at about eight stone four; while, as a matter of fact, he would be
carrying nine stone, and then be a hot favourite. You must have
something on--something worth winning. If you can beg or borrow 'a
monkey' for a couple of days you are made for life. I could get it
on for you with Cook at twenty to one, but he would want to see the
cash first, and I have none to spare at present, or I would do it for
you. It means simply picking up ten thousand. I am sticking on
every penny I can spare myself. We shall have to back to win, for
there won't be more than six runners but it's as safe as the Bank of
England." His face was flushed with excitement as he finished.
Picking up his glass of liqueur, he drained it at a gulp.
Barton had listened intently; his eyes had never left McFadden's
face, and he felt sure that the man had been telling him what he at
all events believed to be the truth. "It is very kind of you to have
given me the tip," he said, "and such an excellent dinner into the
bargain."
"Bosh!" returned the other shortly. "Waiter! two more liqueur
brandies. Look here, youngster, you acted like a gentleman the other
night--got me out of a damned tight place--and I never forget a pal."
Barton was silent for a moment. "What about 'Kildonen'?" he asked.
McFadden laughed. "Oh, I know the stable are sweet on him, but he
hasn't a dog's chance against 'Mountain Lady' at the weights.
Besides, he is a clumsy, bad-tempered brute at the best of times.
What I have told you is gospel truth, sonny; and if you like to send
me anything to Morley's Hotel, I'll shove it on for you. Of course
do the business yourself if you prefer it; but, in case you wanted a
big deal, I thought you might have some trouble in getting it
on--see?"
Barton's face was, perhaps, a little paler than usual, but, beyond
that, there was no trace of any particular emotion in his appearance
or manner to betray the sudden thought that had flashed across his
mind while McFadden was speaking. He sipped the second liqueur which
the waiter had just put down in front of him, knocked the ash off his
cigar, and then, leaning across the table again towards his
companion, answered quietly: "I believe what you tell me, and I am
very grateful to you for letting me know. It is just possible I
might be able to borrow a few hundreds; but I should have to spin
some other yarn about it. Now, if I were to send you something in
notes first post Friday morning, could you let me have them back, if
all goes well, on Friday night?"
"Why, of course! Cook will pay up Saturday. As long as he knows the
cash is there, he wouldn't want it till after the race, even if we
were to go down. There is nothing dead certain, but this is just as
near to it as you can get. It's worth risking something, or I
wouldn't put you on to it. I have been messing about with the turf
for twenty years, and it's the best thing I ever struck." He took
out his watch, and looked at the time. "I must be off," he added; "I
have to meet a man at half-past. You think it over, and do just what
you like; only don't talk about it."
He paid the bill, tipping the waiter generously, and they walked
upstairs. At the door he turned to Barton. "I have dealt with you
straight," he said; "you did me a good turn, and I always pay my
debts when I can."
Barton nodded, and held out his hand. "If I can raise the money, I
will ask you to put it on for me. In any case--thank you."
Through the warm starlit night Barton walked home to his rooms in
Bloomsbury. His face was pale and drawn, and he walked fast, staring
straight in front of him. A fierce excitement was tingling in his
blood; his brain and conscience seemed to be dancing together in a
mad riot of contradictions. Through it all McFadden's words leaped
out in letters of fire: "It means simply picking up ten thousand."
He kept on repeating the sentence to himself. Ten thousand pounds!
Was there anything impossible in the world with such a sum? A
hundred paths, leading up the hills of power and fame, opened out
suddenly before his chained ambition. He walked on quickly,
unsteadily, his hands clenched, his eyes shining.
He turned into Burton Crescent, and stopped before a dark,
untidy-looking house that stared forlornly on the ill-kept square in
front. He had lived here for the last two years, a small bedroom on
the third floor being the exact amount of luxury permitted him by his
salary. The hall was in total blackness--no reckless jet of blue
wasted on the hall burners in Burton Crescent--but experience had
taught Barton to dispense with such facilities. He made his way
upstairs, stumbling over a sleeping cat, that fled away into the
darkness with a horrible scream. His room was poorly furnished, but
saved from the usual deadly barrenness of such apartments by two
large shelves crowded with books, a fine engraving of Burne-Jones's
"King Cophetua," and one or two cheaper reproductions of well-known
pictures. He locked the door behind him, and turned up the gas.
He began to feel a little more collected. This excitement was
contemptible--the wine must have gone to his head. He poured himself
out a glass of water, and drank it off. The thing had to be faced
here and now, in all its radiant possibilities, in all its cold
reality. He sat down in the frayed arm-chair and filled his pipe
with trembling fingers. McFadden had spoken the truth, of that he
felt certain. The man might have been deceived, but Barton doubted
it. He was no callow novice at the game to suck in an ordinary turf
lie with such conviction. Besides, he had hinted that Burch had
reasons for not deceiving him. Then there was the chance that the
trainer himself had been mistaken; such a thing might happen, and, as
McFadden himself had said, nothing was certain, the mare might be
left at the post. He lit his pipe and began to smoke quickly, trying
to see the thing in its right proportions. On the one hand, years of
drudgery at the bank, mean sordid poverty, surroundings such as
these--he looked round and shuddered--to lead to what? Who could
tell? He knew that he had ability, but life was such a ghastly
lottery. Handicapped as he was, without money or friends, what more
likely than that he should share the fate of others, fully as able
and ambitious as himself--men who had eaten out their hearts in the
labour and disappointment of existence, while life floated past on
golden wings mocking and out of reach? And on the other hand, a
deliberate crime, a temporary theft; and then, either life itself,
full-blooded, working, joyous life, with success and fame to light
the road, or--he paused a moment--death. There was no other
alternative.
He got up and crossed the room to the battered deal dressing-table.
Pulling open the drawer, he took out a small revolver, almost the
sole legacy of his father, a cashiered major in the Army. Well, why
not? His life was his own, there was no one dependent on him, no one
who would ever regret his death, except, perhaps, the fellows at the
office. If he chose to cast it into the scale against destiny, who
had the right to question him?
He put back the revolver and paced slowly up and down the room. It
would be so easy in his position at the bank. He had a perfectly
free access to the cash, and was himself responsible for what he used
at the counter. It was checked sometimes by the manager, but never
on Friday or Saturday; on those days Blackmore went away early to
play golf. He could take five hundred pounds on Thursday night, and,
if he won, replace the same notes on Saturday morning. If he
lost--well, there would be a headline for the papers, and another
vacancy for a head clerk in the bank. It was stealing, of course;
sophistry had no place in his mental equipment. Up till now he had
never done a dishonourable action. The terrible example of his
father, and an instinctive dislike to anything underhand, had kept
him straight. For a moment he hesitated--then suddenly some words he
had read in a book a few evenings before flashed into his mind. He
repeated them with a sort of desperate mockery:
He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who dare not put it to the touch,
To win or lose it all.
Yes--Yes. That was best. "To win or lose it all." He whispered the
last line over again; and knew that he had decided.
* * * * * * *
"You have made a mistake," said Steele, "and you will know it in
another twenty minutes. Did you put much on?"