XXX
THE “KING’S HEAD” was an humble place in the old-fashioned style. The house must have been built two hundred years, and the bar seemed as if it had been dug out of the house. The floor was some inches lower than the street, and the ceiling was hardly more than a couple of feet above the head of a tall man. Nor was it divided by numerous varnished partitions, according to the latest fashion. There were but three. The private entrance was in Dean Street, where a few swells came over from the theatre and called for brandies-and-sodas. There was a little mahogany what-not on the counter, and Esther served her customers between the little shelves. The public entrance and the jug and bottle entrance were in a side street. There was no parlour for special customers at the back, and the public bar was inconveniently crowded by a dozen people. The “King’s Head” was not an up-to-date public-house. It had, however, one thing in its favour — it was a free house, and William said they had only to go on supplying good stuff, and trade would be sure to come back to them. For their former partner had done them much harm by systematic adulteration, and a little way down the street a new establishment, with painted tiles and brass lamps, had been opened, and was attracting all the custom of the neighbourhood. She was more anxious than William to know what loss the books showed; she was jealous of the profits of his turf account, and when he laughed at her she said, “But you’re never here in the daytime, you do not have these empty bars staring you in the face morning and afternoon.” And then she would tell him: a dozen pots of beer about dinner-time, a few glasses of bitter — there had been a rehearsal over the way — and that was about all.
 The bars were empty, and the public-house dozed through the heavy heat of a summer afternoon. Esther sat behind the bar sewing, waiting for Jackie to come home from school. William was away at Newmarket. The clock struck five and Jackie peeped through the doors, dived under the counter, and ran into his mother’s arms.
 “Well, did you get full marks to-day?”
 “Yes, mummie, I got full marks.”
 “That’s a good boy — and you want your tea?”
 “Yes, mummie; I’m that hungry I could hardly walk home.”
 “Hardly walk home! What, as bad as that?”
 “Yes, mummie. There’s a new shop open in Oxford Street. The window is all full of boats. Do you think that if all the favourites were to be beaten for a month, father would buy me one?”
 “I thought you was so hungry you couldn’t walk home, dear?”
 “Well, mummie, so I was, but —”
 Esther laughed. “Well, come this way and have your tea.” She went into the parlour and rang the bell.
 “Mummie, may I have buttered toast?”
 “Yes, dear, you may.”
 “And may I go downstairs and help Jane to make it?”
 “Yes, you can do that too; it will save her the trouble of coming up. Let me take off your coat — give me your hat; now run along, and help Jane to make the toast.”
 Esther opened a glass door, curtained with red silk; it led from the bar to the parlour, a tiny room, hardly larger than the private bar, holding with difficulty a small round table, three chairs, an arm-chair, a cupboard. In the morning a dusty window let in a melancholy twilight, but early in the afternoon it became necessary to light the gas. Esther took a cloth from the cupboard, and laid the table for Jackie’s tea. He came up the kitchen stairs telling Jane how many marbles he had won, and at that moment voices were heard in the bar.
 It was William, tall and gaunt, buttoned up in a grey frock-coat, a pair of field glasses slung over his shoulders. He was with his clerk, Ted Blamy, a feeble, wizen little man, dressed in a shabby tweed suit, covered with white dust.
 “Put that bag down, Teddy, and come and have a drink.”
 Esther saw at once that things had not gone well with him.
 “Have the favourites been winning?”
 “Yes, every bloody one. Five first favourites straight off the reel, three yesterday, and two second favourites the day before. By God, no man can stand up against it. Come, what’ll you have to drink, Teddy?”
 “A little whisky, please, guv’nor.”
 The men had their drink. Then William told Teddy to take his bag upstairs, and he followed Esther into the parlour. She could see that he had been losing heavily, but she refrained from asking questions.
 “Now, Jackie, you keep your father company; tell him how you got on at school. I’m going downstairs to look after his dinner.”
 “Don’t you mind about my dinner, Esther, don’t you trouble; I was thinking of dining at a restaurant. I’ll be back at nine.”
 “Then I’ll see nothing of you. We’ve hardly spoken to one another this week; all the day you’re away racing, and in the evening you’re talking to your friends over the bar. We never have a moment alone.”
 “Yes, Esther, I know; but the truth is, I’m a bit down in the mouth. I’ve had a very bad week. The favourites has been winning, and I overlaid my book against Wheatear; I’d heard that she was as safe as ’ouses. I’ll meet some pals down at the ‘Cri’; it will cheer me up.”
 Seeing how disappointed she was, he hesitated, and asked what there was for dinner. “A sole and a nice piece of steak; I’m sure you’ll like it. I’ve a lot to talk to you about. Do stop, Bill, to please me.” She was very winning in her quiet, grave way, so he took her in his arms, kissed her, and said he would stop, that no one could cook a sole as she could, that it gave him an appetite to think of it.
 “And may I stop with father while you are cooking his dinner?” said Jackie.
“Yes, you can do that; but you must go to bed when I bring it upstairs. I want to talk with father then.”
 Jackie seemed quite satisfied with this arrangement, but when Esther came upstairs with the sole, and was about to hand him over to Jane, he begged lustily to be allowed to remain until father had finished his fish. “It won’t matter to you,” he said; “you’ve to go downstairs to fry the steak.”
 But when she came up with the steak he was unwilling as ever to leave. She said he must go to bed, and he knew from her tone that argument was useless. As a last consolation, she promised him that she would come upstairs and kiss him before he went to sleep.
 “You will come, won’t you, mummie? I shan’t go to sleep till you do.” Esther and William both laughed, and Esther was pleased, for she was still a little jealous of his love for his father.
 “Come along,” Jackie cried to Jane, and he ran upstairs, chattering to her about the toys he had seen in Oxford Street. Charles was lighting the gas, and Esther had to go into the bar to serve some customers. When she returned, William was smoking his pipe. Her dinner had had its effect, he had forgotten his losses, and was willing to tell her the news. He had a bit of news for her. He had seen Ginger; Ginger had come up as cordial as you like, and had asked him what price he was laying.
 “Did he bet with you?”
 “Yes, I laid him ten pounds to five.”
 Once more William began to lament his luck. “You’ll have better luck to-morrow,” she said. “The favourites can’t go on winning. Tell me about Ginger.”
 “There isn’t much to tell. We’d a little chat. He knew all about the little arrangement, the five hundred, you know, and laughed heartily. Peggy’s married. I’ve forgotten the chap’s name.”
 “The one that you kicked downstairs?”
 “No, not him; I can’t think of it. No matter, Ginger remembered you; he wished us luck, took the address, and said he’d come in to-night to see you if he possibly could. I don’t think he’s been doing too well lately, if he had he’d been more stand-offish. I saw Jimmy White — you remember Jim, the little fellow we used to call the Demon, ’e that won the Stewards’ Cup on Silver Braid? ... Didn’t you and ’e ’ave a tussle together at the end of dinner — the first day you come down from town?”
 “The second day it was.”
 “You’re right, it was the second day. The first day I met you in the avenue I was leaning over the railings having a smoke, and you come along with a heavy bundle and asked me the way. I wasn’t in service at that time. Good Lord, how time does slip by! It seems like yesterday .... And after all those years to meet you as you was going to the public for a jug of beer, and ’ere we are man and wife sitting side by side in our own ’ouse.”
 Esther had been in the “King’s Head” now nearly a year. The first Mrs. Latch had got her divorce without much difficulty; and Esther had begun to realise that she had got a good husband long before they slipped round to the nearest registry office and came back man and wife.
 Charles opened the door. “Mr. Randal is in the bar, sir, and would like to have a word with you.”
 “All right,” said William. “Tell him I’m coming into the bar presently.” Charles withdrew. “I’m afraid,” said William, lowering his voice, “that the old chap is in a bad way. He’s been out of a place a long while, and will find it ’ard to get back again. Once yer begin to age a bit, they won’t look at you. We’re both well out of business.”
 Mr. Randal sat in his favourite corner by the wall, smoking his clay. He wore a large frock-coat, vague in shape, pathetically respectable. The round hat was greasy round the edges, brown and dusty on top. The shirt was clean but unstarched, and the thin throat was tied with an old black silk cravat. He looked himself, the old servant out of situation — the old servant who would never be in situation again.
 “Been ’aving an ’ell of a time at Newmarket,” said William; “favourites romping in one after the other.”
 “I saw that the favourites had been winning. But I know of something, a rank outsider, for the Leger. I got the letter this morning. I thought I’d come round and tell yer.”
 “Much obliged, old mate, but it don’t do for me to listen to such tales; we bookmakers must pay no attention to information, no matter how correct it may be .... Much obliged all the same. What are you drinking?”
 “I’ve not finished my glass yet.” He tossed off the last mouthful.
 “The same?” said William.
 “Yes, thank you.”
 William drew two glasses of porter. “Here’s luck.” The men nodded, drank, and then William turned to speak to a group at the other end of the bar. “One moment,” John said, touching William on the shoulder. “It is the best tip I ever had in my life. I ’aven’t forgotten what I owe you, and if this comes off I’ll be able to pay you all back. Lay the odds, twenty sovereigns to one against —” Old John looked round to see that no one was within ear-shot, then he leant forward and whispered the horse’s name in William’s ear. William laughed. “If you’re so sure about it as all that,” he said, “I’d sooner lend you the quid to back the horse elsewhere.”
 “Will you lend me a quid?”
 “Lend you a quid and five first favourites romping in one after another! — you must take me for Baron Rothschild. You think because I’ve a public-house I’m coining money; well, I ain’t. It’s cruel the business we do here. You wouldn’t believe it, and you know that better liquor can’t be got in the neighbourhood.” Old John listened with the indifference of a man whose life is absorbed in one passion and who can interest himself with nothing else. Esther asked him after Mrs. Randal and his children, but conversation on the subject was always disagreeable to him, and he passed it over with few words. As soon as Esther moved away he leant forward and whispered, “Lay me twelve pounds to ten shillings. I’ll be sure to pay you; there’s a new restaurant going to open in Oxford Street and I’m going to apply for the place of headwaiter.”
 “Yes, but will you get it?” William answered brutally. He did not mean to be unkind, but his nature was as hard and as plain as a kitchen-table. The chin dropped into the unstarched collar and the old-fashioned necktie, and old John continued smoking unnoticed by any one. Esther looked at him. She saw he was down on his luck, and she remembered the tall, melancholy, pale-faced woman whom she had met weeping by the sea-shore the day that Silver Braid had won the cup. She wondered what had happened to her, in what corner did she live, and where was the son that John Randal had not allowed to enter the Barfield establishment as page-boy, thinking he would be able to make something better of him than a servant.
 The regular customers had begun to come in. Esther greeted them with nods and smiles of recognition. She drew the beer two glasses at once in her hand, and picked up little zinc measures, two and four of whisky, and filled them from a small tap. She usually knew the taste of her customers. When she made a mistake she muttered “stupid,” and Mr. Ketley was much amused at her forgetting that he always drank out of the bottle; he was one of the few who came to the “King’s Head” who could afford sixpenny whisky. “I ought to have known by this time,” she said. “Well, mistakes will occur in the best regulated families,” the little butterman replied. He was meagre and meek, with a sallow complexion and blond beard. His pale eyes were anxious, and his thin, bony hands restless. His general manner was oppressed, and he frequently raised his hat to wipe his forehead, which was high and bald. At his elbow stood Journeyman, Ketley’s very opposite. A tall, harsh, angular man, long features, a dingy complexion, and the air of a dismissed soldier. He held a glass of whisky-and-water in a hairy hand, and bit at the corner of a brown moustache. He wore a threadbare black frock-coat, and carried a newspaper under his arm. Ketley and Journeyman held widely different views regarding the best means of backing horses. Ketley was preoccupied with dreams and omens; Journeyman, a clerk in the parish registry office, studied public form; he was guided by it in all his speculations, and paid little heed to the various rumours always afloat regarding private trials. Public form he admitted did not always come out right, but if a man had a headpiece and could remember all the running, public form was good enough to follow. Racing with Journeyman was a question of calculation, and great therefore was his contempt for the weak and smiling Ketley, whom he went for on all occasions. But Ketley was pluckier than his appearance indicated, and the duels between the two were a constant source of amusement in the bar of the “King’s Head.”
 “Well, Herbert, the omen wasn’t altogether up to the mark this time,” said Journeyman, with a malicious twinkle in his small brown eyes.
“No, it was one of them unfortunate accidents.”
 “One of them unfortunate accidents,” repeated Journeyman, derisively; “what’s accidents to do with them that ’as to do with the reading of omens? I thought they rose above such trifles as weights, distances, bad riding .... A stone or two should make no difference if the omen is right.”
 Ketley was no way put out by the slight titter that Journeyman’s retort had produced in the group about the bar. He drank his whisky-and-water deliberately, like one, to use a racing expression, who had been over the course before.
 “I’ve ’eard that argument. I know all about it, but it don’t alter me. Too many strange things occur for me to think that everything can be calculated with a bit of lead-pencil in a greasy pocket-book.”
 “What has the grease of my pocket-book to do with it?” replied Journeyman, looking round. The company smiled and nodded. “You says that signs and omens is above any calculation of weights. Never mind the pocket-book, greasy or not greasy; you says that these omens is more to be depended on than the best stable information.”
 “I thought that you placed no reliance on stable information, and that you was guided by the weights that you calculated in that ’ere pocket-book.”
 “What’s my pocket-book to do with it? You want to see my pocket-book; well, here it is, and I’ll bet two glasses of beer that it ain’t greasier than any other pocket-book in this bar.”
 “I don’t see meself what pocket-books, greasy or not greasy, has to do with it,” said William. “Walter put a fair question to Herbert. The omen didn’t come out right, and Walter wanted to know why it didn’t come out right.”
 “That was it,” said Journeyman.
 All eyes were now fixed on Ketley. “You want to know why the omen wasn’t right? I’ll tell you — because it was no omen at all, that’s why. The omens always comes right; it is we who aren’t always in the particular state of mind that allows us to read the omens right.” Journeyman shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. Ketley looked at him with the same expression of placid amusement. “You’d like me to explain; well, I will. The omen is always right, but we aren’t always in the state of mind for the reading of the omen. You think that ridiculous, Walter; but why should omens differ from other things? Some days we can get through our accounts in ’alf the time we can at other times, the mind being clearer. I asks all present if that is not so.”
 Ketley had got hold of his audience, and Journeyman’s remark about closing time only provoked a momentary titter. Ketley looked long and steadily at Journeyman and then said, “Perhaps closing time won’t do no more for your calculation of weights than for my omens .... I know them jokes, we’ve ’eard them afore; but I’m not making jokes; I’m talking serious.” The company nodded approval. “I was saying there was times when the mind is fresh like the morning. That’s the time for them what ’as got the gift of reading the omens. It is a sudden light that comes into the mind, and it points straight like a ray of sunlight, if there be nothing to stop it .... Now do you understand?” No one had understood, but all felt that they were on the point of understanding. “The whole thing is in there being nothing to interrupt the light.”
 “But you says yourself that yer can’t always read them,” said Journeyman; “an accident will send you off on the wrong tack, so it all comes to the same thing, omens or no omens.”
 “A man will trip over a piece of wire laid across the street, but that don’t prove he can’t walk, do it, Walter?”
 Walter was unable to say that it did not, and so Ketley scored another point over his opponent. “I made a mistake, I know I did, and if it will help you to understand I’ll tell you how it was made. Three weeks ago I was in this ’ere bar ’aving what I usually takes. It was a bit early; none of you fellows had come in. I don’t think it was much after eight. The governor was away in the north racin’ — hadn’t been ’ome for three or four days; the missus was beginning to look a bit lonely.” Ketley smiled and glanced at Esther, who had told Charles to serve some customers, and was listening as intently as the rest. “I’d ’ad a nice bit of supper, and was just feeling that fresh and clear ’eaded as I was explaining to you just now is required for the reading, thinking of nothing in perticler, when suddenly the light came. I remembered a conversation I ’ad with a chap about American corn. He wouldn’t ’ear of the Government taxing corn to ’elp the British farmer. Well, that conversation came back to me as clear as if the dawn had begun to break. I could positively see the bloody corn; I could pretty well ’ave counted it. I felt there was an omen about somewhere, and all of a tremble I took up the paper; it was lying on the bar just where your hand is, Walter. But at that moment, just as I was about to cast my eye down the list of ’orses, a cab comes down the street as ’ard as it could tear. There was but two or three of us in the bar, and we rushed out — the shafts was broke, ’orse galloping and kicking, and the cabby ’olding on as ’ard as he could. But it was no good, it was bound to go, and over it went against the kerb. The cabby, poor chap, was pretty well shook to pieces; his leg was broke, and we’d to ’elp to take him to the hosspital. Now I asks if it was no more than might be expected that I should have gone wrong about the omen. Next day, as luck would have it, I rolled up ’alf a pound of butter in a piece of paper on which ‘Cross Roads’ was written.”
 “But if there had been no accident and you ’ad looked down the list of ’orses, ’ow do yer know that yer would ’ave spotted the winner?”
 “What, not Wheatear, and with all that American corn in my ’ead? Is it likely I’d’ve missed it?”
 No one answered, and Ketley drank his whisky in the midst of a most thoughtful silence. At last one of the group said, and he seemed to express the general mind of the company —
 “I don’t know if omens be worth a-following of, but I’m blowed if ’orses be worth backing if the omens is again them.”
 His neighbour answered, “And they do come wonderful true occasional. They ’as ’appened to me, and I daresay to all ’ere present.” The company nodded. “You’ve noticed how them that knows nothing at all about ’orses — the less they knows the better their luck — will look down the lot and spot the winner from pure fancy — the name that catches their eyes as likely.”
 “There’s something in it,” said a corpulent butcher with huge, pursy, prominent eyes and a portentous stomach. “I always held with going to church, and I hold still more with going to church since I backed Vanity for the Chester Cup. I was a-falling asleep over the sermon, when suddenly I wakes up hearing, ‘Vanity of vanities, and all is vanity.’”
 Several similar stories were told, and then various systems for backing horses were discussed. “You don’t believe that no ’orses is pulled?” said Mr. Stack, the porter at Sutherland Mansions, Oxford Street, a large, bluff man, wearing a dark blue square-cut frock coat with brass buttons. A curious-looking man, with red-stained skin, dark beady eyes, a scanty growth of beard, and a loud, assuming voice. “You don’t believe that no ’orses is pulled?” he reiterated.
 “I didn’t say that no ’orse was never pulled,” said Journeyman. He stood with his back leaning against the partition, his long legs stretched out. “If one was really in the know, then I don’t say nothing about it; but who of us is ever really in the know?”
 “I’m not so sure about that,” said Mr. Stack. “There’s a young man in my mansions that ’as a servant; this servant’s cousin, a girl in the country, keeps company with one of the lads in the White House stable. If that ain’t good enough, I don’t know what is; good enough for my half-crown and another pint of beer too, Mrs. Latch, as you’ll be that kind.”
 Esther drew the beer, and Old John, who had said nothing till now, suddenly joined in the conversation. He too had heard of something; he didn’t know if it was the same as Stack had heard of; he didn’t expect it was. It couldn’t very well be, ‘cause no one knew of this particular horse, not a soul! — not ’alf-a-dozen people in the world. No, he would tell no one until his money and the stable money was all right. And he didn’t care for no half-crowns or dollars this time, if he couldn’t get a sovereign or two on the horse he’d let it alone. This time he’d be a man or a mouse. Every one was listening intently, but old John suddenly assumed an air of mystery and refused to say another word. The conversation worked back whither it had started, and again the best method of backing horses was passionately discussed. Interrupting someone whose theories seemed intolerably ludicrous, Journeyman said —
 “Let’s ’ear what’s the governor’s opinion; he ought to know what kind of backer gets the most out of him.”
 Journeyman’s proposal to submit the question to the governor met with very general approval. Even the vagrant who had taken his tankard of porter to the bench where he could drink and eat what fragments of food he had collected, came forward, interested to know what kind of backer got most out of the bookmaker.
 “Well,” said William, “I haven’t been making a book as long as some of them, but since you ask me what I think I tell you straight. I don’t care a damn whether they backs according to their judgment, or their dreams, or their fancy. The cove that follows favourites, or the cove that backs a jockey’s mount, the cove that makes an occasional bet when he hears of a good thing, the cove that bets regular, ‘cording to a system — the cove, yer know, what doubles every time — or the cove that bets as the mood takes him — them and all the other coves, too numerous to be mentioned, I’m glad to do business with. I cries out to one as ’eartily as to another: ‘The old firm, the old firm, don’t forget the old firm .... What can I do for you to-day, sir?’ There’s but one sort of cove I can’t abide.”
 “And he is —” said Journeyman.
 “He is Mr. George Buff.”
 “Who’s he? who’s he?” asked several; and the vagrant caused some amusement by the question, “Do ’e bet on the course?”
 “Yes, he do,” said William, “an’ nowhere else. He’s at every meeting as reg’lar as if he was a bookie himself. I ’ates to see his face .... I’d be a rich man if I’d all the money that man ’as ’ad out of me in the last three years.”
 “What should you say was his system?” asked Mr. Stack.
 “I don’t know no more than yerselves.”
 This admission seemed a little chilling; for everyone had thought himself many steps nearer El Dorado.
 “But did you ever notice,” said Mr. Ketley, “that there was certain days on which he bet?”
 “No, I never noticed that.”
 “Are they outsiders that he backs?” asked Stack.
 “No, only favourites. But what I can’t make out is that there are times when he won’t touch them; and when he don’t, nine times out of ten they’re beaten.”
 “Are the ’orses he backs what you’d call well in?” said Journeyman.
 “Not always.”
 “Then it must be on information from the stable authorities?” said Stack.
 “I dun know,” said William; “have it that way if you like, but I’m glad there ain’t many about like him. I wish he’d take his custom elsewhere. He gives me the solid hump, he do.”
 “What sort of man should you say he was? ’as he been a servant, should you say?” asked old John.
 “I can’t tell you what he is. Always new suit of clothes and a hie-glass. Whenever I see that ’ere hie-glass and that brown beard my heart goes down in my boots. When he don’t bet he takes no notice, walks past with a vague look on his face, as if he didn’t see the people, and he don’t care that for the ’orses. Knowing he don’t mean no business, I cries to him, ‘The best price, Mr. Buff; two to one on the field, ten to one bar two or three.’ He just catches his hie-glass tighter in eye and looks at me, smiles, shakes his head, and goes on. He is a warm ’un; he is just about as ’ot as they make ’em.”
 “What I can’t make out,” said Journeyman, “is why he bets on the course. You say he don’t know nothing about horses. Why don’t he remain at ’ome and save the exes?”
 “I’ve thought of all that,” said William, “and can’t make no more out of it than you can yerselves. All we know is that, divided up between five or six of us, Buff costs not far short of six ’undred a year.”
 At that moment a small blond man came into the bar. Esther knew him at once. It was Ginger. He had hardly changed at all — a little sallower, a little dryer, a trifle less like a gentleman.
 “Won’t you step round, sir, to the private bar?” said William. “You’ll be more comfortable.”
 “Hardly worth while. I was at the theatre, and I thought I’d come in and have a look round .... I see that you haven’t forgotten the old horses,” he said, catching sight of the prints of Silver Braid and Summer’s Dean which William had hung on the wall. “That was a great day, wasn’t it? Fifty to one chance, started at thirty; and you remember the Gaffer tried him to win with twenty pound more than he had to carry .... Hullo, John! very glad to see you again; growing strong and well, I hope?”
 The old servant looked so shabby that Esther was not surprised that Ginger did not shake hands with him. She wondered if he would remember her, and as the thought passed through her mind he extended his hand across the bar.
 “I ’ope I may have the honour of drinking a glass of wine with you, sir,” said William. Ginger raised no objection, and William told Esther to go down-stairs and fetch up a bottle of champagne.
 Ketley, Journeyman, Stack, and the others listened eagerly. To meet the celebrated gentleman-rider was a great event in their lives. But the conversation was confined to the Barfield horses; it was carried on by the merest allusion, and Journeyman wearied of it. He said he must be getting home; the others nodded, finished their glasses, and bade William good-night as they left. A couple of flower-girls with loose hair, shawls, and trays of flowers, suggestive of streetfaring, came in and ordered four ale. They spoke to the vagrant, who collected his match-boxes in preparation for a last search for charity. William cut the wires of the champagne, and at that moment Charles, who had gone through with the ladder to turn out the street lamp, returned with a light overcoat on his arm which he said a cove outside wanted to sell him for two-and-six.
 “Do you know him?” said William.
 “Yes, I knowed him. I had to put him out the other night — Bill Evans, the cove that wears the blue Melton.”
 The swing doors were opened, and a man between thirty and forty came in. He was about the medium height; a dark olive skin, black curly hair, picturesque and disreputable, like a bird of prey in his blue Melton jacket and billycock hat.
 “You’d better ’ave the coat,” he said; “you won’t better it;” and coming into the bar he planked down a penny as if it were a sovereign. “Glass of porter; nice warm weather, good for the ’arvest. Just come up from the country — a bit dusty, ain’t I?”
 “Ain’t you the chap,” said William, “what laid Mr. Ketley six ’alf-crowns to one against Cross Roads?”
 Charles nodded, and William continued —
 “I like your cheek coming into my bar.”
 “No harm done, gov’nor; no one was about; wouldn’t ’ave done it if they had.”
 “That’ll do,” said William. “ ... No, he don’t want the coat. We likes to know where our things comes from.”
 Bill Evans finished his glass. “Good-night, guv’nor; no ill-feeling.”
 The flower-girls laughed; one offered him a flower. “Take it for love,” she said. He was kind enough to do so, and the three went out together.
 “I don’t like the looks of that chap,” said William, and he let go the champagne cork. “Yer health, sir.” They raised their glasses, and the conversation turned on next week’s racing.
 “I dun know about next week’s events,” said old John, “but I’ve heard of something for the Leger — an outsider will win.”
 “Have you backed it?”
 “I would if I had the money, but things have been going very unlucky with me lately. But I’d advise you, sir, to have a trifle on. It’s the best tip I ’ave had in my life.”
 “Really!” said Ginger, beginning to feel interested, “so I will, and so shall you. I’m damned if you shan’t have your bit on. Come, what is it? William will lay the odds. What is it?”
 “Briar Rose, the White House stable, sir.”
 “Why, I thought that —”
 “No such thing, sir; Briar Rose’s the one.”
 Ginger took up the paper. “Twenty-five to one Briar Rose taken.”
 “You see, sir, it was taken.”
 “Will you lay the price, William — twenty-five half-sovereigns to one?”
 “Yes, I’ll lay it.”
 Ginger took a half-sovereign from his pocket and handed it to the bookmaker.
 “I never take money over this bar. You’re good for a thin ’un, sir,”
William said, with a smile, as he handed back the money.
“But I don’t know when I shall see you again,” said Ginger. “It will be very inconvenient. There’s no one in the bar.”
 “None but the match-seller and them two flower-girls. I suppose they don’t matter?”
 Happiness flickered up through the old greyness of the face. Henceforth something to live for. Each morning bringing news of the horse, and the hours of the afternoon passing pleasantly, full of thoughts of the evening paper and the gossip of the bar. A bet on a race brings hope into lives which otherwise would be hopeless.

XXXI
NEVER HAD a Derby excited greater interest. Four hot favourites, between which the public seemed unable to choose. Two to one taken and offered against Fly-leaf, winner of the Two Thousand; four to one taken and offered against Signet-ring, who, half-trained, had run Fly-leaf to a head. Four to one against Necklace, the winner of the Middle Park Plate and the One Thousand. Seven to one against Dewberry, the brilliant winner of the Newmarket stakes. The chances of these horses were argued every night at the “King’s Head.” Ketley’s wife used to wear a string of yellow beads when she was a girl, but she wasn’t certain what had become of them. Ketley did not wear a signet-ring, and had never known anyone who did. Dewberries grew on the river banks, but they were not ripe yet. Fly-leaf, he could not make much of that — not being much of a reader. So what with one thing and another Ketley didn’t believe much in this ’ere Derby. Journeyman caustically remarked that, omens or no omens, one horse was bound to win. Why didn’t Herbert look for an omen among the outsiders? Old John’s experiences led him to think that the race lay between Fly-leaf and Signet-ring. He had a great faith in blood, and Signet-ring came of a more staying stock than did Fly-leaf. “When they begin to climb out of the dip Fly-leaf will have had about enough of it.” Stack nodded approval. He had five bob on Dewberry. He didn’t know much about his staying powers, but all the stable is on him; “and when I know the stable-money is right I says, ‘That’s good enough for me!’”
 Ginger, who came in occasionally, was very sweet on Necklace, whom he declared to be the finest mare of the century. He was listened to with awed attention, and there was a death-like silence in the bar when he described how she had won the One Thousand. He wouldn’t have ridden her quite that way himself; but then what was a steeplechase rider’s opinion worth regarding a flat race? The company demurred, and old John alluded to Ginger’s magnificent riding when he won the Liverpool on Foxcover, steadying the horse about sixty yards from home, and bringing him up with a rush in the last dozen strides, nailing Jim Sutton, who had persevered all the way, on the very post by a head. Bill Evans, who happened to look in that evening, said that he would not be surprised to see all the four favourites bowled out by an outsider. He had heard something that was good enough for him. He didn’t suppose the guv’nor would take him on the nod, but he had a nice watch which ought to be good for three ten.
 “Turn it up, old mate,” said William.
 “All right, guv’nor, I never presses my goods on them that don’t want ’em. If there’s any other gentleman who would like to look at this ’ere timepiece, or a pair of sleeve links, they’re in for fifteen shillings. Here’s the ticket. I’m a bit short of money, and have a fancy for a certain outsider. I’d like to have my bit on, and I’ll dispose of the ticket for — what do you say to a thin ’un, Mr. Ketley?”
 “Did you ’ear me speak just now?” William answered angrily, “or shall I have to get over the counter?”
 “I suppose, Mrs. Latch, you have seen a great deal of racing?” said Ginger.
“No, sir. I’ve heard a great deal about racing, but I never saw a race run.”
 “How’s that, shouldn’t you care?”
 “You see, my husband has his betting to attend to, and there’s the house to look after.”
 “I never thought of it before,” said William. “You’ve never seen a race run, no more you haven’t. Would you care to come and see the Derby run next week, Esther?”
 “I think I should.”
 At that moment the policeman stopped and looked in. All eyes went up to the clock, and Esther said, “We shall lose our licence if —”
 “If we don’t get out,” said Ginger.
 William apologised.
 “The law is the law, sir, for rich and poor alike; should be sorry to hurry you, sir, but in these days very little will lose a man his house. Now, Herbert, finish your drink. No, Walter, can’t serve any more liquor to-night .... Charles, close the private bar, let no one else in .... Now, gentlemen, gentlemen.”
 Old John lit his pipe and led the way. William held the door for them. A few minutes after the house was closed.
 A locking of drawers, fastening of doors, putting away glasses, making things generally tidy, an hour’s work before bed-time, and then they lighted their candle in the little parlour and went upstairs.
 William flung off his coat. “I’m dead beat,” he said, “and all this to lose —” He didn’t finish the sentence. Esther said —
 “You’ve a heavy book on the Derby. Perhaps an outsider’ll win.”
 “I ’ope so .... But if you’d care to see the race, I think it can be managed. I shall be busy, but Journeyman or Ketley will look after you.”
 “I don’t know that I should care to walk about all day with Journeyman, nor Ketley neither.”
 They were both tired, and with an occasional remark they undressed and got into bed. Esther laid her head on the pillow and closed her eyes ....
 “I wonder if there’s any one going who you’d care for?”
 “I don’t care a bit about it, Bill.” The conversation paused. At the end of a long silence William said —
 “It do seem strange that you who has been mixed up in it so much should never have seen a race.” Esther didn’t answer. She was falling asleep, and William’s voice was beginning to sound vague in her ears. Suddenly she felt him give her a great shove. “Wake up, old girl, I’ve got it. Why not ask your old pal, Sarah Tucker, to go with us? I heard John say she’s out of situation. It’ll be a nice treat for her.”
 “Ah .... I should like to see Sarah again.”
 “You’re half asleep.”
 “No, I’m not; you said we might ask Sarah to come to the Derby with us.”
 William regretted that he had not a nice trap to drive them down. To hire one would run into a deal of money, and he was afraid it might make him late on the course. Besides, the road wasn’t what it used to be; every one goes by train now. They dropped off to sleep talking of how they should get Sarah’s address.
 Three or four days passed, and one morning William jumped out of bed and said —
 “I think it will be a fine day, Esther.” He took out his best suit of clothes, and selected a handsome silk scarf for the occasion. Esther was a heavy sleeper, and she lay close to the wall, curled up. Taking no notice of her, William went on dressing; then he said —
 “Now then, Esther, get up. Teddy will be here presently to pack up my clothes.”
 “Is it time to get up?”
 “Yes, I should think it was. For God’s sake, get up.”
 She had a new dress for the Derby. It had been bought in Tottenham Court Road, and had only come home last night. A real summer dress! A lilac pattern on a white ground, the sleeves and throat and the white hat tastefully trimmed with lilac and white lace; a nice sunshade to match. At that moment a knock came at the door.
 “All right, Teddy, wait a moment, my wife’s not dressed yet. Do make haste, Esther.”
 Esther stepped into the skirt so as not to ruffle her hair, and she was buttoning the bodice when little Mr. Blamy entered.
 “Sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but there isn’t no time to lose if the governor don’t want to lose his place on the ’ill.”
 “Now then, Teddy, make haste, get the toggery out; don’t stand there talking.”
 The little man spread the Gladstone bag upon the floor and took a suit of checks from the chest of drawers, each square of black and white nearly as large as a sixpence.
 “You’ll wear the green tie, sir?” William nodded. The green tie was a yard of flowing sea-green silk. “I’ve got you a bunch of yellow flowers, sir; will you wear them now, or shall I put them in the bag?”
 William glanced at the bouquet. “They look a bit loud,” he said; “I’ll wait till we get on the course; put them in the bag.”
 The card to be worn in the white hat — “William Latch, London,” in gold letters on a green ground — was laid on top. The boots with soles three inches high went into the box on which William stood while he halloaed his prices to the crowd. Then there were the two poles which supported a strip of white linen, on which was written in gold letters, “William Latch, ‘The King’s Head,’ London. Fair prices, prompt payment.”
 It was a grey day, with shafts of sunlight coming through, and as the cab passed over Waterloo Bridge, London, various embankments and St. Paul’s on one side, wharves and warehouses on the other, appeared in grey curves and straight silhouettes. The pavements were lined with young men — here and there a girl’s dress was a spot of colour in the grey morning. At the station they met Journeyman and old John, but Sarah was nowhere to be found. William said —
 “We shall be late; we shall have to go without her.”
 Esther’s face clouded. “We can’t go without her; don’t be so impatient.”
At that moment a white muslin was seen in the distance, and Esther said,
“I think that that’s Sarah.”
“You can chatter in the train — you’ll have a whole hour to talk about each other’s dress; get in, get in,” and William pressed them into a third-class carriage. They had not seen each other for so long a while, and there was so much to say that they did not know where to begin. Sarah was the first to speak.
 “It was kind of you to think of me. So you’ve married, and to him after all!” she added, lowering her voice.
 Esther laughed. “It do seem strange, don’t it?”
 “You’ll tell me all about it,” she said. “I wonder we didn’t run across one another before.”
 They rolled out of the grey station into the light, and the plate-glass drew the rays together till they burnt the face and hands. They sped alongside of the upper windows nearly on a level with the red and yellow chimney-pots; they passed open spaces filled with cranes, old iron, and stacks of railway sleepers, pictorial advertisements, sky signs, great gasometers rising round and black in their iron cages over-topping or nearly the slender spires. A train steamed along a hundred-arched viaduct; and along a black embankment the other trains rushed by in a whirl of wheels, bringing thousands of clerks up from the suburbs to their city toil.
 The excursion jogged on, stopping for long intervals before strips of sordid garden where shirts and pink petticoats were blowing. Little streets ascended the hillsides; no more trams, ‘buses, too, had disappeared, and afoot the folk hurried along the lonely pavements of their suburbs. At Clapham Junction betting men had crowded the platform; they all wore grey overcoats with race-glasses slung over their shoulders. And the train still rolled through the brick wilderness which old John said was all country forty years ago.
 The men puffed at their pipes, and old John’s anecdotes about the days when he and the Gaffer, in company with all the great racing men of the day, used to drive down by road, were listened to with admiration. Esther had finished telling the circumstances in which she had met Margaret; and Sarah questioned her about William and how her marriage had come about. The train had stopped outside of a little station, and the blue sky, with its light wispy clouds, became a topic of conversation. Old John did not like the look of those clouds, and the women glanced at the waterproofs which they carried on their arms.
 They passed bits of common with cows and a stray horse, also a little rural cemetery; but London suddenly began again parish after parish, the same blue roofs, the same tenement houses. The train had passed the first cedar and the first tennis lawn. And knowing it to be a Derby excursion the players paused in their play and looked up. Again the line was blocked; the train stopped again and again. But it had left London behind, and the last stoppage was in front of a beautiful June landscape. A thick meadow with a square weather-beaten church showing between the spreading trees; miles of green corn, with birds flying in the bright air, and lazy clouds going out, making way for the endless blue of a long summer’s day.

XXXII
IT HAD BEEN arranged that William should don his betting toggery at the “Spread Eagle Inn.” It stood at the cross-roads, only a little way from the station — a square house with a pillared porch. Even at this early hour the London pilgrimage was filing by. Horses were drinking in the trough; their drivers were drinking in the bar; girls in light dresses shared glasses of beer with young men. But the greater number of vehicles passed without stopping, anxious to get on the course. They went round the turn in long procession, a policeman on a strong horse occupied the middle of the road. The waggonettes and coaches had red-coated guards, and the air was rent with the tooting of the long brass horns. Every kind of dingy trap went by, sometimes drawn by two, sometimes by only one horse — shays half a century old jingled along; there were even donkey-carts. Esther and Sarah were astonished at the number of costers, but old John told them that that was nothing to what it was fifty years ago. The year that Andover won the block began seven or eight miles from Epsom. They were often half-an-hour without moving. Such chaffing and laughing, the coster cracked his joke with the duke, but all that was done away with now.
 “Gracious!” said Esther, when William appeared in his betting toggery. “I shouldn’t have known you.”
 He did seem very wonderful in his checks, green necktie, yellow flowers, and white hat with its gold inscription, “Mr. William Latch, London.”
 “It’s all right,” he said; “you never saw me before in these togs — fine, ain’t they? But we’re very late. Mr. North has offered to run me up to the course, but he’s only two places. Teddy and me must be getting along — but you needn’t hurry. The races won’t begin for hours yet. It’s only about a mile — a nice walk. These gentlemen will look after you. You know where to find me,” he said, turning to John and Walter. “You’ll look after my wife and Miss Tucker, won’t you?” and forthwith he and Teddy jumped into a waggonette and drove away.
 “Well, that’s what I calls cheek,” said Sarah. “Going off by himself in a waggonette and leaving us to foot it.”
 “He must look after his place on the ’ill or else he’ll do no betting,” said Journeyman. “We’ve plenty of time; racing don’t begin till after one.”
 Recollections of what the road had once been had loosened John’s tongue, and he continued his reminiscences of the great days when Sir Thomas Hayward had laid fifteen thousand to ten thousand three times over against the favourite. The third bet had been laid at this very spot, but the Duke would not accept the third bet, saying that the horse was then being backed on the course at evens. So Sir Thomas had only lost thirty thousand pounds on the race. Journeyman was deeply interested in the anecdote; but Sarah looked at the old man with a look that said, “Well, if I’m to pass the day with you two I never want to go to the Derby again .... Come on in front,” she whispered to Esther, “and let them talk about their racing by themselves.” The way led through a field ablaze with buttercups; it passed by a fish-pond into which three drunkards were gazing. “Do you hear what they’re saying about the fish?” said Sarah.
 “Don’t pay no attention to them,” said Esther. “If you knew as much about drunkards as I do, you’d want no telling to give them a wide berth .... Isn’t the country lovely? Isn’t the air soft and warm?”
 “Oh, I don’t want no more country. I’m that glad to get back to town. I wouldn’t take another situation out of London if I was offered twenty a year.”
 “But look,” said Esther, “at the trees. I’ve hardly been in the country since I left Woodview, unless you call Dulwich the country — that’s where Jackie was at nurse.”
 The Cockney pilgrimage passed into a pleasant lane overhung with chestnut and laburnum trees. The spring had been late, and the white blossoms stood up like candles — the yellow dropped like tassels, and the streaming sunlight filled the leaves with tints of pale gold, and their light shadows patterned the red earth of the pathway. But very soon this pleasant pathway debouched on a thirsting roadway where tired horses harnessed to heavy vehicles toiled up a long hill leading to the Downs. The trees intercepted the view, and the blown dust whitened the foliage and the wayside grass, now in possession of hawker and vagrant. The crowd made way for the traps; and the young men in blue and grey trousers, and their girls in white dresses, turned and watched the four horses bringing along the tall drag crowned with London fashion. There the unwieldly omnibus and the brake filled with fat girls in pink dresses and yellow hats, and there the spring cart drawn up under a hedge. The cottage gates were crowded with folk come to see London going to the Derby. Outhouses had been converted into refreshment bars, and from these came a smell of beer and oranges; further on there was a lamentable harmonium — a blind man singing hymns to its accompaniment, and a one-legged man holding his hat for alms; and not far away there stood an earnest-eyed woman offering tracts, warning folk of their danger, beseeching them to retrace their steps.
 At last the trees ceased and they found themselves on the hilltop in a glare of sunlight, on a space of worn ground where donkeys were tethered.
 “Is this the Derby?” said Sarah.
 “I hope you’re not disappointed?”
 “No, dear; but where’s all the people — the drags, the carriages?”
 “We’ll see them presently,” said old John, and he volunteered some explanations. The white building was the Grand Stand. The winning-post was a little further this way.
 “Where do they start?” said Sarah.
 “Over yonder, where you see that clump. They run through the furze right up to Tattenham Corner.”
 A vast crowd swarmed over the opposite hill, and beyond the crowd the women saw a piece of open downland dotted with bushes, and rising in gentle incline to a belt of trees which closed the horizon. “Where them trees are, that’s Tattenham Corner.” The words seemed to fill old John with enthusiasm, and he described how the horses came round this side of the trees. “They comes right down that ’ere ’ill — there’s the dip — and they finishes opposite to where we is standing. Yonder, by Barnard’s Ring.”
 “What, all among the people?” said Sarah.
 “The police will get the people right back up the hill.”
 “That’s where we shall find William,” said Esther.
 “I’m getting a bit peckish; ain’t you, dear? He’s got the luncheon-basket .... but, lor’, what a lot of people! Look at that.”
 What had attracted Sarah’s attention was a boy walking through the crowd on a pair of stilts fully eight feet high. He uttered short warning cries from time to time, held out his wide trousers and caught pennies in his conical cap. Drags and carriages continued to arrive. The sweating horses were unyoked, and grooms and helpers rolled the vehicles into position along the rails. Lackeys drew forth cases of wine and provisions, and the flutter of table-cloths had begun to attract vagrants, itinerant musicians, fortune-tellers, begging children. All these plied their trades round the fashion of grey frock-coats and silk sun-shades. Along the rails rough fellows lay asleep; the place looked like a vast dormitory; they lay with their hats over their faces, clay pipes sticking from under the brims, their brown-red hands upon the grey grass.
 Suddenly old John pleaded an appointment; he was to meet a friend who would give him the very latest news respecting a certain horse; and Esther, Sarah, and Journeyman wandered along the course in search of William. Along the rails strangely-dressed men stood on stools, satchels and race-glasses slung over their shoulders, great bouquets in their button-holes. Each stood between two poles on which was stretched a piece of white-coloured linen, on which was inscribed their name in large gold letters. Sarah read some of these names out: “Jack Hooper, Marylebone. All bets paid.” “Tom Wood’s famous boxing rooms, Epsom.” “James Webster, Commission Agent, London.” And these betting men bawled the prices from the top of their high stools and shook their satchels, which were filled with money, to attract custom. “What can I do for you to-day, sir?” they shouted when they caught the eye of any respectably-dressed man. “On the Der-by, on the Der-by, I’ll bet the Der-by .... To win or a place, to win or a place, to win or a place — seven to one bar two or three, seven to one bar two or three .... the old firm, the old firm," — like so many challenging cocks, each trying to outshrill the other.
 Under the hill-side in a quiet hollow had been pitched a large and commodious tent. Journeyman mentioned that it was the West London Gospel-tent. He thought the parson would have it pretty well all to himself, and they stopped before a van filled with barrels of Watford ales. A barrel had been taken from the van and placed on a small table; glasses of beer were being served to a thirsty crowd; and all around were little canvas shelters, whence men shouted, “‘Commodation, ‘commodation.”
 The sun had risen high, and what clouds remained floated away like filaments of white cotton. The Grand Stand, dotted like a ceiling with flies, stood out distinct and harsh upon a burning plain of blue. The light beat fiercely upon the booths, the carriages, the vehicles, the “rings,” the various stands. The country around was lost in the haze and dazzle of the sunlight; but a square mile of downland fluttered with flags and canvas, and the great mob swelled, and smoked, and drank, shied sticks at Aunt Sally, and rode wooden horses. And through this crush of perspiring, shrieking humanity Journeyman, Esther, and Sarah sought vainly for William. The form of the ground was lost in the multitude and they could only tell by the strain in their limbs whether they were walking up or down hill. Sarah declared herself to be done up, and it was with difficulty that she was persuaded to persevere a little longer. At last Journeyman caught sight of the bookmaker’s square shoulders.
 “Well, so here you are. What can I do for you, ladies? Ten to one bar three or four. Will that suit you?”
 “The luncheon-basket will suit us a deal better,” said Sarah.
 At that moment a chap came up jingling two half-crowns in his hand. “What price the favourite?” “Two to one,” cried William. The two half-crowns were dropped into the satchel, and, thus encouraged, William called out louder than ever, “The old firm, the old firm; don’t forget the old firm.” There was a smile on his lips while he halloaed — a cheery, good-natured smile, which made him popular and brought him many a customer.
 “On the Der-by, on the Der-by, on the Der-by!” All kinds and conditions of men came to make bets with him; custom was brisk; he could not join the women, who were busy with the lunch-basket, but he and Teddy would be thankful for the biggest drink they could get them. “Ginger beer with a drop of whiskey in it, that’s about it, Teddy?”
 “Yes, guv’nor, that’ll do for me .... We’re getting pretty full on
Dewberry; might come down a point, I think.”
“All right, Teddy .... And if you’d cut us a couple each of strong sandwiches — you can manage a couple, Teddy?”
 “I think I can, guv’nor.”
 There was a nice piece of beef in the basket, and Esther cut several large sandwiches, buttering the bread thickly and adding plenty of mustard. When she brought them over William bent down and whispered —
 “My own duck of a wife, there’s no one like her.”
 Esther blushed and laughed with pleasure, and every trace of the resentment for the suffering he had occasioned her dropped out of her heart. For the first time he was really her husband; for the first time she felt that sense of unity in life which is marriage, and knew henceforth he was the one thing that she had to live for.
 After luncheon Journeyman, who was making no way with Sarah, took his leave, pleading that he had some friends to meet in Barnard’s Ring. They were glad to be rid of him. Sarah had many a tale to tell; and while listening to the matrimonial engagements that had been broken off, Esther shifted her parasol from time to time to watch her tall, gaunt husband. He shouted the odds, willing to bet against every horse, distributed tickets to the various folk that crowded round him, each with his preference, his prejudice, his belief in omens, in tips, or in the talent and luck of a favourite jockey. Sarah continued her cursive chatter regarding the places she had served in. She felt inclined for a snooze, but was afraid it would not look well. While hesitating she ceased speaking, and both women fell asleep under the shade of their parasols. It was the shallow, glassy sleep of the open air, through which they divined easily the great blur that was the race-course.
 They could hear William’s voice, and they heard a bell ring and shouts of “Here they come!” Then a lull came, and their perceptions grew a little denser, and when they awoke the sky was the same burning blue, and the multitude moved to and fro like puppets.
 Sarah was in no better temper after than before her sleep. “It’s all very well for you,” she said. “You have your husband to look after .... I’ll never come to the Derby again without a young man ... I’m tired of sitting here, the grass is roasting. Come for a walk.”
 They were two nice-looking English women of the lower classes, prettily dressed in light gowns with cheap sunshades in their cotton-gloved hands. Sarah looked at every young man with regretful eyes. In such moods acquaintanceships are made; and she did not allow Esther to shake off Bill Evans, who, just as if he had never been turned out of the bar of the “King’s Head,” came up with his familiar, “Good morning, ma’am — lovely weather for the races.” Sarah’s sidelong glances at the blue Melton jacket and the billycock hat defined her feelings with sufficient explicitness, and it was not probable that any warning would have been heeded. Soon they were engaged in animated conversation, and Esther was left to follow them if she liked.
 She walked by Sarah’s side, quite ignored, until she was accosted by Fred Parsons. They were passing by the mission tent, and Fred was calling upon the folk to leave the ways of Satan for those of Christ. Bill Evans was about to answer some brutal insult; but seeing that “the Christian” knew Esther he checked himself in time. Esther stopped to speak to Fred, and Bill seized the opportunity to slip away with Sarah.
 “I didn’t expect to meet you here, Esther.”
 “I’m here with my husband. He said a little pleasure —”
 “This is not innocent pleasure, Esther; this is drunkenness and debauchery. I hope you’ll never come again, unless you come with us,” he said, pointing to some girls dressed as bookmakers, with Salvation and Perdition written on the satchels hung round their shoulders. They sought to persuade the passers-by to come into the tent. “We shall be very glad to see you,” they said, and they distributed mock racing cards on which was inscribed news regarding certain imaginary racing. “The Paradise Plate, for all comers,” “The Salvation Stakes, an Eternity of Happiness added.”
 Fred repeated his request. “I hope the next time you come here it will be with us; you’ll strive to collect some of Christ’s lost sheep.”
 “And my husband making a book yonder?”
 An awkward silence intervened, and then he said —
 “Won’t you come in; service is going on?”
 Esther followed him. In the tent there were some benches, and on a platform a grey-bearded man with an anxious face spoke of sinners and redemption. Suddenly a harmonium began to play a hymn, and, standing side by side, Esther and Fred sang together. Prayer was so inherent in her that she felt no sense of incongruity, and had she been questioned she would have answered that it did not matter where we are, or what we are doing, we can always have God in our hearts.
 Fred followed her out.
 “You have not forgotten your religion, I hope?”
 “No, I never could forget that.”
 “Then why do I find you in such company? You don’t come here like us to find sinners.”
 “I haven’t forgotten God, but I must do my duty to my husband. It would be like setting myself up against my husband’s business, and you don’t think I ought to do that? A wife that brings discord into the family is not a good wife, so I’ve often heard.”
 “You always thought more of your husband than of Christ, Esther.”
 “Each one must follow Christ as best he can! It would be wrong of me to set myself against my husband.”
 “So he married you?” Fred answered bitterly.
 “Yes. You thought he’d desert me a second time; but he’s been the best of husbands.”
 “I place little reliance on those who are not with Christ. His love for you is not of the Spirit. Let us not speak of him. I loved you very deeply, Esther. I would have brought you to Christ .... But perhaps you’ll come to see us sometimes.”
 “I do not forget Christ. He’s always with me, and I believe you did care for me. I was sorry to break it off, you know I was. It was not my fault.”
 “Esther, it was I who loved you.”
 “You mustn’t talk like that. I’m a married woman.”
 “I mean no harm, Esther. I was only thinking of the past.”
 “You must forget all that ... Good-bye; I’m glad to have seen you, and that we said a prayer together.”
 Fred didn’t answer, and Esther moved away, wondering where she should find
Sarah.

XXXIII
THE CROWD shouted. She looked where the others looked, but saw only the burning blue with the white stand marked upon it. It was crowded like the deck of a sinking vessel, and Esther wondered at the excitement, the cause of which was hidden from her. She wandered to the edge of the crowd until she came to a chalk road where horses and mules were tethered. A little higher up she entered the crowd again, and came suddenly upon a switchback railway. Full of laughing and screaming girls, it bumped over a middle hill, and then rose slowly till it reached the last summit. It was shot back again into the midst of its fictitious perils, and this mock voyaging was accomplished to the sound of music from a puppet orchestra. Bells and drums, a fife and a triangle, cymbals clashed mechanically, and a little soldier beat the time. Further on, under a striped awning, were the wooden horses. They were arranged so well that they rocked to and fro, imitating as nearly as possible the action of real horses. Esther watched the riders. A blue skirt looked like a riding habit, and a girl in salmon pink leaned back in her saddle just as if she had been taught how to ride. A girl in a grey jacket encouraged a girl in white who rode a grey horse. But before Esther could make out for certain that the man in the blue Melton jacket was Bill Evans he had passed out of sight, and she had to wait until his horse came round the second time. At that moment she caught sight of the red poppies in Sarah’s hat.
 The horses began to slacken speed. They went slower and slower, then stopped altogether. The riders began to dismount and Esther pressed through the bystanders, fearing she would not be able to overtake her friends.
 “Oh, here you are,” said Sarah. “I thought I never should find you again. How hot it is!”
“Were you on in that ride? Let’s have another, all three of us. These three horses.”
 Round and round they went, their steeds bobbing nobly up and down to the sound of fifes, drums and cymbals. They passed the winning-post many times; they had to pass it five times, and the horse that stopped nearest it won the prize. A long-drawn-out murmur, continuous as the sea, swelled up from the course — a murmur which at last passed into words: “Here they come; blue wins, the favourite’s beat.” Esther paid little attention to these cries; she did not understand them; they reached her indistinctly and soon died away, absorbed in the strident music that accompanied the circling horses. These had now begun to slacken speed .... They went slower and slower. Sarah and Bill, who rode side by side, seemed like winning, but at the last moment they glided by the winning-post. Esther’s steed stopped in time, and she was told to choose a china mug from a great heap.
 “You’ve all the luck to-day,” said Bill. “Hayfield, who was backed all the winter, broke down a month ago .... 2 to 1 against Fly-leaf, 4 to 1 against Signet-ring, 4 to 1 against Dewberry, 10 to 1 against Vanguard, the winner at 50 to 1 offered. Your husband must have won a little fortune. Never was there such a day for the bookies.”
 Esther said she was very glad, and was undecided which mug she should choose. At last she saw one on which “Jack” was written in gold letters. They then visited the peep-shows, and especially liked St. James’s Park with the Horse Guards out on parade; the Spanish bull-fight did not stir them, and Sarah couldn’t find a single young man to her taste in the House of Commons. Among the performing birds they liked best a canary that climbed a ladder. Bill was attracted by the American strength-testers, and he gave an exhibition of his muscle, to Sarah’s very great admiration. They all had some shies at cocoa-nuts, and passed by J. Bilton’s great bowling saloon without visiting it. Once more the air was rent with the cries of “Here they come! Here they come!” Even the ‘commodation men left their canvas shelters and pressed forward inquiring which had won. A moment after a score of pigeons floated and flew through the blue air and then departed in different directions, some making straight for London, others for the blue mysterious evening that had risen about the Downs — the sun-baked Downs strewn with waste paper and covered by tipsy men and women, a screaming and disordered animality.
 “Well, so you’ve come back at last,” said William. “The favourite was beaten. I suppose you know that a rank outsider won. But what about this gentleman?”
 “Met these ’ere ladies on the ’ill an’ been showing them over the course. No offence, I hope, guv’nor?”
 William did not answer, and Bill took leave of Sarah in a manner that told Esther that they had arranged to meet again.
“Where did you pick up that bloke?”
 “He came up and spoke to us, and Esther stopped to speak to the parson.”
 “To the parson. What do you mean?”
 The circumstance was explained, and William asked them what they thought of the racing.
 “We didn’t see no racing,” said Sarah; “we was on the ’ill on the wooden ’orses. Esther’s ’orse won. She got a mug; show the mug, Esther.”
 “So you saw no Derby after all?” said William.
 “Saw no racin’!” said his neighbour; “ain’t she won the cup?”
 The joke was lost on the women, who only perceived that they were being laughed at.
 “Come up here, Esther,” said William; “stand on my box. The ’orses are just going up the course for the preliminary canter. And you, Sarah, take Teddy’s place. Teddy, get down, and let the lady up.”
 “Yes, guv’nor. Come up ’ere, ma’am.”
 “And is those the ’orses?” said Sarah. “They do seem small.”
 The ringmen roared. “Not up to those on the ’ill, ma’am,” said one. “Not such beautiful goers,” said another.
 There were two or three false starts, and then, looking through a multitude of hats, Esther saw five or six thin greyhound-looking horses. They passed like shadows, flitted by; and she was sorry for the poor chestnut that trotted in among the crowd.
 This was the last race. Once more the favourite had been beaten; there were no bets to pay, and the bookmakers began to prepare for departure. It was the poor little clerks who were charged with the luggage. Teddy did not seem as if he would ever reach the top of the hill. With Esther and Sarah on either arm, William struggled with the crowd. It was hard to get through the block of carriages. Everywhere horses waited with their harness on, and Sarah was afraid of being bitten or kicked. A young aristocrat cursed them from the box-seat, and the groom blew a blast as the drag rolled away. It was like the instinct of departure which takes a vast herd at a certain moment. The great landscape, half country, half suburb, glinted beneath the rays of a setting sun; and through the white dust, and the drought of the warm roads, the brakes and carriages and every crazy vehicle rolled towards London; orange-sellers, tract-sellers, thieves, vagrants, gipsies, made for their various quarters — roadside inns, outhouses, hayricks, hedges, or the railway station. Down the long hill the vast crowd made its way, humble pedestrians and carriage folk, all together, as far as the cross-roads. At the “Spread Eagle” there would be stoppage for a parting drink, there the bookmakers would change their clothes, and there division would happen in the crowd — half for the railway station, half for the London road. It was there that the traditional sports of the road began. A drag, with a band of exquisites armed with pea-shooters, peppering on costers who were getting angry, and threatening to drive over the leaders. A brake with two poles erected, and hanging on a string quite a line of miniature chamber-pots. A horse, with his fore-legs clothed in a pair of lady’s drawers. Naturally unconscious of the garment, the horse stepped along so absurdly that Esther and Sarah thought they’d choke with laughter.
 At the station William halloaed to old John, whom he caught sight of on the platform. He had backed the winner — forty to one about Sultan. It was Ketley who had persuaded him to risk half a sovereign on the horse. Ketley was at the Derby; he had met him on the course, and Ketley had told him a wonderful story about a packet of Turkish Delight. The omen had come right this time, and Journeyman took a back seat.
 “Say what you like,” said William, “it is damned strange; and if anyone did find the way of reading them omens there would be an end of us bookmakers.” He was only half in earnest, but he regretted he had not met Ketley. If he had only had a fiver on the horse — 200 to 5!
 They met Ketley at Waterloo, and every one wanted to hear from his own lips the story of the packet of Turkish Delight. So William proposed they should all come up to the “King’s Head” for a drink. The omnibus took them as far as Piccadilly Circus; and there the weight of his satchel tempted William to invite them to dinner, regardless of expense.
 “Which is the best dinner here?” he asked the commissionaire.
 “The East Room is reckoned the best, sir.”
 The fashion of the shaded candles and the little tables, and the beauty of an open evening bodice and the black and white elegance of the young men at dinner, took the servants by surprise, and made them feel that they were out of place in such surroundings. Old John looked like picking up a napkin and asking at the nearest table if anything was wanted. Ketley proposed the grill room, but William, who had had a glass more than was good for him, declared that he didn’t care a damn — that he could buy up the whole blooming show. The head-waiter suggested a private room; it was abruptly declined, and William took up the menu. “Bisque Soup, what’s that? You ought to know, John.” John shook his head. “Ris de veau! That reminds me of when —” William stopped and looked round to see if his former wife was in the room. Finally, the head-waiter was cautioned to send them up the best dinner in the place. Allusion was made to the dust and heat. Journeyman suggested a sluice, and they inquired their way to the lavatories. Esther and Sarah were away longer than the men, and stood dismayed at the top of the room till William called for them. The other guests seemed a little terrified, and the head-waiter, to reassure them, mentioned that it was Derby Day.
 William had ordered champagne, but it had not proved to any one’s taste except, perhaps, to Sarah, whom it rendered unduly hilarious; nor did the delicate food afford much satisfaction; the servants played with it, and left it on their plates; and it was not until William ordered up the saddle of mutton and carved it himself that the dinner began to take hold of the company. Esther and Sarah enjoyed the ices, and the men stuck to the cheese, a fine Stilton, which was much appreciated. Coffee no one cared for, and the little glasses of brandy only served to augment the general tipsiness. William hiccupped out an order for a bottle of Jamieson eight-year-old; but pipes were not allowed, and cigars were voted tedious, so they adjourned to the bar, where they were free to get as drunk as they pleased. William said, “Now let’s ’ear the blo —the bloody omen that put ye on to Sultan — that blood — packet of Turkish Delight.”
 “Most extra — most extraordinary thing I ever heard in my life, so yer ’ere?” said Ketley, staring at William and trying to see him distinctly.
 William nodded. “How was it? We want to ’ear all about it. Do hold yer tongue, Sarah. I beg pardon, Ketley is go — going to tell us about the bloody omen. Thought you’d like to he — ar, old girl.”
 Allusion was made to a little girl coming home from school, and a piece of paper on the pavement. But Ketley could not concentrate his thoughts on the main lines of the story, and it was lost in various dissertations. But the company was none the less pleased with it, and willingly declared that bookmaking was only a game for mugs. Get on a winner at forty to one, and you could make as much in one bet as a poor devil of a bookie could in six months, fagging from race-course to race-course. They drank, argued, and quarrelled, until Esther noticed that Sarah was looking very pale. Old John was quite helpless; Journeyman, who seemed to know what he was doing, very kindly promised to look after him.
 Ketley assured the commissionaire that he was not drunk; and when they got outside Sarah felt obliged to step aside; she came back, saying that she felt a little better.
 They stood on the pavement’s edge, a little puzzled by the brilliancy of the moonlight. And the three men who followed out of the bar-room were agreed regarding the worthlessness of life. One said, “I don’t think much of it; all I live for is beer and women.” The phrase caught on William’s ear, and he said, “Quite right, old mate,” and he held out his hand to Bill Evans. “Beer and women, it always comes round to that in the end, but we mustn’t let them hear us say it.” The men shook hands, and Bill promised to see Sarah safely home. Esther tried to interpose, but William could not be made to understand, and Sarah and Bill drove away together in a hansom. Sarah dozed off immediately on his shoulder, and it was difficult to awaken her when the cab stopped before a house whose respectability took Bill by surprise.

XXXIV
THINGS went well enough as long as her savings lasted. When her money was gone Bill returned to the race-course in the hope of doing a bit of welshing. Soon after he was “wanted” by the police; they escaped to Belgium, and it devolved on Sarah to support him. The hue and cry over, they came back to London.
 She had been sitting up for him; he had come home exasperated and disappointed. A row soon began; and she thought that he would strike her. But he refrained, for fear, perhaps, of the other lodgers. He took her instead by the arm, dragged her down the broken staircase, and pushed her into the court. She heard the retreating footsteps, and saw a cat slink through a grating, and she wished that she too could escape from the light into the dark.
 A few belated women still lingered in the Strand, and the city stood up like a prison, hard and stark in the cold, penetrating light of morning. She sat upon a pillar’s base, her eyes turned towards the cabmen’s shelter. The horses munched in their nose-bags, and the pigeons came down from their roosts. She was dressed in an old black dress, her hands lay upon her knees, and the pose expressed so perfectly the despair and wretchedness in her soul that a young man in evening clothes, who had looked sharply at her as he passed, turned and came back to her, and he asked her if he could assist her. She answered, “Thank you, sir.” He slipped a shilling into her hand. She was too broken-hearted to look up in his face, and he walked away wondering what was her story. The disordered red hair, the thin, freckled face, were expressive, and so too was the movement of her body when she got up and walked, not knowing and not caring where she was going. There was sensation of the river in her thoughts; the river drew her, and she indistinctly remembered that she would find relief there if she chose to accept that relief. The water was blue beneath the sunrise, and it seemed to offer to end her life’s trouble. She could not go on living. She could not bear with her life any longer, and yet she knew that she would not drown herself that morning. There was not enough will in her to drown herself. She was merely half dead with grief. He had turned her out, he had said that he never wanted to see her again, but that was because he had been unlucky. She ought to have gone to bed and not waited up for him; he didn’t know what he was doing; so long as he didn’t care for another woman there was hope that he might come back to her. The spare trees rustled their leaves in the bright dawn air, and she sat down on a bench and watched the lamps going out, and the river changing from blue to brown. Hours passed, and the same thoughts came and went, until with sheer weariness of thinking she fell asleep.
 She was awakened by the policeman, and she once more continued her walk. The omnibuses had begun; women were coming from market with baskets on their arms; and she wondered if their lovers and husbands were unfaithful to them, if they would be received with blows or knocks when they returned. Her slightest mistakes had often, it seemed, merited a blow; and God knows she had striven to pick out the piece of bacon that she thought he would like, and it was not her fault that she couldn’t get any money nowhere. Why was he cruel to her? He never would find another woman to care for him more than she did .... Esther had a good husband, Esther had always been lucky. Two hours more to wait, and she felt so tired, so tired. The milk-women were calling their ware — those lusty short-skirted women that bring an air of country into the meanest alley. She sat down on a doorstep and looked on the empty Haymarket, vaguely conscious of the low vice which still lingered there though the morning was advancing. She turned up Shaftesbury Avenue, and from the beginning of Dean Street she watched to see if the shutters were yet down. She thought they were, and then saw that she was mistaken. There was nothing to do but to wait, and on the steps of the Royalty Theatre she waited. The sun was shining, and she watched the cab horses, until the potboy came through and began cleaning the street lamp. She didn’t care to ask him any questions; dressed as she was, he might answer her rudely. She wanted to see Esther first. Esther would pity and help her. So she did not go directly to the “King’s Head,” but went up the street a little way and came back. The boy’s back was turned to her; she peeped through the doors. There was no one in the bar, she must go back to the steps of the theatre. A number of children were playing there, and they did not make way for her to sit down. She was too weary to argue the point, and walked up and down the street. When she looked through the doors a second time Esther was in the bar.
 “Is that you, Sarah?”
 “Yes, it is me.”
 “Then come in .... How is it that we’ve not seen you all this time? What’s the matter?”
 “I’ve been out all night. Bill put me out of doors this morning, and I’ve been walking about ever since.”
 “Bill put you out of doors? I don’t understand.”
 “You know Bill Evans, the man we met on the race-course, the day we went to the Derby .... It began there. He took me home after your dinner at the ‘Criterion.’ ... It has been going on ever since.”
 “Good Lord! ... Tell me about it.”
 Leaning against the partition that separated the bars, Sarah told how she had left her home and gone to live with him.
 “We got on pretty well at first, but the police was after him, and we made off to Belgium. There we was very hard up, and I had to go out on the streets.”
 “He made you do that?”
 “He couldn’t starve, could he?”
 The women looked at each other, and then Sarah continued her story. She told how they had come to London, penniless. “I think he wants to turn honest,” she said, “but luck’s been dead against him .... It’s that difficult for one like him, and he’s been in work, but he can’t stick to it; and now I don’t know what he’s doing — no good, I fancy. Last night I got anxious and couldn’t sleep, so I sat up. It was about two when he came in. We had a row and he dragged me downstairs and he put me out. He said he never wanted to see my ugly face again. I don’t think I’m as bad as that; I’ve led a hard life, and am not what I used to be, but it was he who made me what I am. Oh, it don’t matter now, it can’t be helped, it is all over with me. I don’t care what becomes of me, only I thought I’d like to come and tell you. We was always friends.”
 “You mustn’t give way like that, old girl. You must keep yer pecker up. You’re dead beat .... You’ve been walking about all night, no wonder. You must come and have some breakfast with us.”
 “I should like a cup of tea, Esther. I never touches spirits now. I got over that.”
 “Come into the parlour. You’ll be better when you’ve had b