He looked very important at present, as he began:

"I say, you chaps, I've got something to tell you--private, you know.

You know Mills? His father's brother-in-law lives at Epsom, and so gets all the tips for the races; and Mills says he's put his father up to no end of a straight tip for the Derby. And Mills says he wants to get up a little sweep on the quiet. No blanks, you know. Each fellow draws one horse, and the one that wins gets the lot. Jolly good score, too."

"Oh yes," said Arthur, "I know all about that! I once put a sixpence in a sweep, and never saw it again. Catch me fielding in that little game."

"Oh, but Mills says it's not to be for money, for that's not allowed.

He suggested postage-stamps, and then whoever won would be able to write lots of letters home, you know."

"Who wants to write lots of letters home?" said Dig, whose correspondence rarely exceeded two letters a term.

"Well, of course, you're not obliged," explained Simson seriously. "If I drew Roaring Tommy--I mean," said he, correcting himself with a blush, "if I drew the favourite, you know, and potted the sweep, I should turn the stamps into tin."

"Is Roaring Tommy the favourite, then?" asked Tilbury.

"Yes. I oughtn't to have let it out. I told Mills I wouldn't; because it might get his father into a row. Mills says he's dead certain to win. I say, shall you fellows go in?"

"I don't mind," said Tilbury, "as it's not money. Any fellow sell me six stamps?"

"Yes, for sevenpence," said Arthur. "I'm not going in, young Simson.

My governor said to me the chances were some young blackleg or other would be on to me to sh.e.l.l out something for a swindle of the kind; and he said, 'Don't you do it.' Besides, I've not got the money."

"I could lend you six stamps," said Simson, who was very keen on the scheme, and failed to see any point in Arthur's other remarks.

"Not good enough," said Arthur.

"Not much chance of scoring, either," said Dig, "if there's about twenty go in and only one wins."

"Just as likely you win it as anybody else," said Simson.

"Come on, you needn't funk it. Lots of fellows are in--Felgate's in."

Arthur whistled.

"He's a prefect," said he.

"Of course he is, and he doesn't see any harm in it."

"Who else?" asked Arthur.

"Rogers, and Munger, and Sherriff."

"A first eleven chap," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Dig.

"Lots of others. There's twelve names already out of twenty-one. No!

thirteen, counting Tilbury. It'll be too late to do it to-morrow."

Arthur looked at Dig and Dig looked at Arthur. Twenty-one sixpences were ten shillings and sixpence, and ten shillings and sixpence would buy a new bat,--at a cost of six stamps. His father had warned him against gambling with money, but had said nothing about postage-stamps.

And the cautions Dig had received against all "evil ways" did not even specify gambling at all.

Simson took out his list and wrote Tilbury's name, and then waited for Arthur's decision.

"May as well," said Dig.

"Wait till to-morrow," said Arthur, who still felt qualms.

"You'll be too late then," said Simson.

"All right--that'll settle it then," said Arthur.

"Felgate said he thought you'd be sure to go in," urged the tempter.

"Did he?" said Arthur, a good deal impressed.

"Yes," said Dig jocularly, already fumbling the ten-and-six in antic.i.p.ation in his pocket. "Any m.u.f.f can get round Arthur."

It was an unlucky jest, if the baronet's object was to decide his friend in favour of the proposal. For Arthur coloured up and took his hand out of his pocket.

"Wait till to-morrow," said he again.

"Dig, you'll give your name now, won't you?" said Simson.

"Don't know," said Dig evasively; "better not stick it down, that is, not unless the list gets full up, you know."

Simson treated this evasive reply as a consent, and wrote Digs name down, there and then, in his presence.

"Come on, Herapath," said he, making a last appeal. "Don't desert your old friends."

"I tell you I can't say anything till to-morrow," said Arthur, a little crusty.

Simson gave it up and departed.

"Felgate seems to be bowling wide just now," observed Dig. "I shouldn't have fancied he'd have gone in for this sort of thing."

"Why shouldn't he, just as much as you?" growled Arthur.

"I? I haven't gone in for it yet."

"Oh yes, you have; your name's down."

"Only as last man in, though, in case he should get filled up."

"Doesn't matter whether you go in first or last, you're in the game."

"Well," said Dig resignedly, "I don't think I am, really; but if I am, I hope I get Roaring Tommy."

Simson had not much difficulty in filling up his list. The specious pretext of the postage-stamps did not delude many, but Felgate's name worked wonders. Felgate had had no intention of allowing his name to be used, and was indeed in blissful ignorance that his support was generally known. He had in a reckless way expressed his sympathy with what he chose to term a very innocent "round game," and had given practical proof of his sympathy by buying a ticket. That was yesterday, and he had since forgotten the whole affair, and was quietly looking about him for some new way of wiping off the rapidly-acc.u.mulating score against Railsford and his lieutenant Ainger.