The horse started at 1000 to 15, and it seemed like a million to
one against him, for his rough coat had been left on him, and he looked
a ragged equine invalid. The invalid won, however, by a neck, the
Marquis of Hastings was ruined, and the confederates won about L150,000.
As we go over these stories of plot and counterplot, it is hardly
possible to avoid thinking what a singularly high-souled set of gentry
we have got amongst. What ambitions! To trick money out of somebody's
pocket! To wager when you know that you have made winning certain! The
outcome of it all is that, in the unequal battle between the men who
back and the men who lay, the latter must win; they _will_ win, even if
they have to cog the dice on a pinch; and, moreover, they will not be
found out officially, even though their "secret" is as open as if it
were written across the sky. A strange, hard, pitiless crew are these
same bookmakers. Personally, strange to say, they are, in private life,
among the most kindly and generous of men; their wild life, with its
excitement and hurry, and keen encounters of wits, never seems to make
them anything but thoughtful and liberal when distress has to be aided;
but the man who will go far out of his way to perform a charitable
action will take your very skin from you if you engage him in that
enclosure which is his battle-ground, and he will not be very particular
as to whether he wins your skin by fair means or foul.
Pages:
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235