He looked out of the window as he spoke. A throng of people had gathered round the pavilion, waiting to hear the latest news. Mr. Speedwell directed Perry to go out and search among them for any friends of his employer whom he might know by sight. Perry hesitated, and scratched his head for the second time.
'What are you waiting for?' asked the surgeon, sharply. 'You know his friends by sight, don't you?'
'I don't think I shall find them outside,' said Perry.
'Why not?'
'They backed him heavily, Sir—and they have all lost.'
Deaf to this unanswerable reason for the absence of friends, Mr. Speedwell insisted on sending Perry out to search among the persons who composed the crowd. The trainer returned with his report. 'You were right, Sir. There are some of his friends outside. They want to see him.'
'Let two or three of them in.'
Three came in. They stared at him. They uttered brief expressions of pity in slang. They said to Mr. Speedwell, 'We wanted to see him. What is it—eh?'
'It's a break-down in his health.'
'Bad training?'
'Athletic Sports.'
'Oh! Thank you. Good-evening.'
Mr. Speedwell's answer drove them out like a flock of sheep before a dog. There was not even time to put the question to them as to who was to take him home.
'I'll look after him, Sir,' said Perry. 'You can trust me.'
'I'll go too,' added the trainer's doctor; 'and see him littered down for the night.'
(The only two men who had 'hedged' their bets, by privately backing his opponent, were also the only two men who volunteered to take him home!)
They went back to the sofa on which he was lying. His bloodshot eyes were rolling heavily and vacantly about him, on the search for something. They rested on the doctor—and looked away again. They turned to Mr. Speedwell—and stopped, riveted on his face. The surgeon bent over him, and said, 'What is it?'
He answered with a thick accent and laboring breath—uttering a word at a time: 'Shall—I—die?'
'I hope not.'
'Sure?'
'No.'
He looked round him again. This time his eyes rested on the trainer. Perry came forward.
'What can I do for you, Sir?'
The reply came slowly as before. 'My—coat—pocket.'
'This one, Sir?'
'No.'
'This?'
'Yes. Book.'
The trainer felt in the pocket, and produced a betting-book.
'What's to be done with this. Sir?'
'Read.'
The trainer held the book before him; open at the last two pages on which entries had been made. He rolled his head impatiently from side to side of the sofa pillow. It was plain that he was not yet sufficiently recovered to be able to read what he had written.
'Shall I read for you, Sir?'
'Yes.'
The trainer read three entries, one after another, without result; they had all been honestly settled. At the fourth the prostrate man said, 'Stop!' This was the first of the entries which still depended on a future event. It recorded the wager laid at Windygates, when Geoffrey had backed himself (in defiance of the surgeon's opinion) to row in the University boat-race next spring—and had forced Arnold Brinkworth to bet against him.
'Well, Sir? What's to be done about this?'
He collected his strength for the effort; and answered by a word at a time.
'Write—brother—Julius. Pay—Arnold—wins.'
His lifted hand, solemnly emphasizing what he said, dropped at his side. He closed his eyes; and fell into a heavy stertorous sleep. Give him his due. Scoundrel as he was, give him his due. The awful moment, when his life was trembling in the balance, found him true to the last living faith left among the men of his tribe and time—the faith of the betting-book.
Sir Patrick and Mr. Speedwell quitted the race-ground together; Geoffrey having been previously removed to his lodgings hard by. They met Arnold Brinkworth at the gate. He had, by his own desire, kept out of view among the crowd; and he decided on walking back by himself. The separation from Blanche had changed him in all his habits. He asked but two favors during the interval which was to elapse before he saw his wife again—to be allowed to
