After his rebuff about the compulsory cricket--which, fortunately, no one but the captain (who was not the man to say much about it) had witnessed--Felgate had retired for a time into comparative seclusion.

He believed in his lucky star, and hoped there was a good time coming.

He still had his trump card in hand, but if he could win his trick without it he would be so much to the good.

Arthur, when, on the day after Simson's visit, he heard that the list was closed without him, kicked Simson, and felt on the whole rather glad. He had thought the matter over, and did not like breaking his promise to the people at home. Besides, he still felt sore at the loss of his former sixpence in a similar venture, and looked upon the whole business as more or less of a "plant." Further than that, he now had a delightful opportunity of tormenting Sir Digby, who had weakly yielded to the tempter, albeit with a few qualms and p.r.i.c.kings of conscience.

"Just like you!" bragged Arthur; "anybody can do you! A precious lot of your six stamps you'll see back! _I_ know Mills--a regular shark!--and if there's a row, he'll back out and leave you and the rest of them to catch it; then who'll be Roaring Tommy, eh?"

Digby did not like this sort of talk; it offended him--besides, it frightened him.

"Stuff and nonsense!" said he. "Who's to care about a few postage- stamps? I wouldn't gamble with money, not if I was paid for it. Why, I should fancy if Felgate goes in for it it's not much harm."

"Felgate knows what he's up to, and can look after himself," said Arthur. "You can't; you swallow everything any a.s.s tells you!"

"I don't swallow all _you_ tell me, for one!" retorted Dig.

Arthur coloured; he did not like being pulled up short like that, especially when he was doing the high moral business.

"All serene!" said he testily; "do as you please. I've warned you to keep out of it, young Oakshott. Don't blame me if you burn your fingers."

Thus said his prigship, and undid all the credit his little act of self- denial had earned him. He is not the only boy who gets his head turned now and then by the unexpected discovery that he is virtuous. Is he, reader?

But, without being a prophet, his prigship managed on the present occasion to make a pretty near prediction, for Sir Digby Oakshott did burn his fingers.

He was summoned one evening to Mills's study to draw his horse. The twenty-one names were shaken up in a hat, and those present each drew out one. To Dig's disgust, he drew Blazer--a horse whom everybody jeered at as a rank outsider. Simson was the fortunate drawer of Roaring Tommy. Mills got the second favourite, and Felgate--for whom, in his absence, Mills drew--got another outsider called Polo.

Dig scarcely liked to tell Arthur of his bad luck, but his chum extracted the secret from him.

"I'm jolly glad!" said Arthur sententiously; "the worst thing that could happen to you would be to win. I'm glad you'll have a good lesson."

"Thanks," said Dig, and went out to try to sell Blazer for three stamps.

But no one would look at him, and Dig finally crushed the paper into his waistcoat-pocket in disgust, and wished he had his stamps safe there instead.

A fortnight later, just as he and Arthur were marching down proudly to the cricket-field, in order to take part in a great match--the first of the season.--between an eleven of Ainger's and an eleven of Barnworth's, he was struck all of a heap by the amazing announcement, conveyed by Simson, that Blazer had won the Derby! Dig turned pale at the news, and convulsively dug his hand into his pocket to see if he had his paper safe.

"Not really?" he exclaimed.

"Yes, he has! Roaring Tommy was nowhere. Jolly lucky for me I sold my ticket to Tilbury for eight-and-six! I wish I'd bought yours for threepence when you asked me."

Dig laughed hysterically.

"Then I've got the ten-and-six?" he asked.

"Rather."

Dig made two duck's eggs, and missed every ball that came in his way that afternoon, and was abused and hooted all round the field. What cared he? He had Blazer burning a hole in his pocket, and ten-and-six in postage-stamps waiting for him in Mills's study. As soon as he could decently quit the scene of his inglorious exploits, he bolted off to claim his stakes. Mills was not at home, so he took a seat and waited for him, glancing round the room carefully, in case the stamps should be lying out for him somewhere. But they were not.

In due time Mills returned.

"Hullo, kid! what do you want?"

Dig grinned and pulled out his paper.

"How's that, umpire?" demanded he.

Mills stared at the doc.u.ment.

"What on earth is the row with you? What are you driving at?"

"Ten-and-sixpence, please," said the beaming baronet; "I've got Blazer."

Mills laughed.

"You're not in much of a hurry. Has Blazer won, then?"

"Yes; a rank outsider, too. Do you know, I tried all I knew to sell my ticket for threepence. Just fancy if I had."

"It's a pity you didn't," said Mills, taking a chair, "The fact is, there's been a bit of a muddle about Blazer. That a.s.s Simson, when he wrote out the tickets, wrote Blazer twice over instead of Blazer and Catterwaul. They were both such regular outsiders, it didn't seem worth correcting it at the time. I'm awfully sorry, you know, but your's-- let's see," said he, taking the cadaverous baronet's ticket and looking at it, "yours has got one of the corners torn off--yes, that's it.

Yours should be Catterwaul."

Dig gasped, and tried to moisten his parched lips. It was a long time before the words came.

"It's a swindle!" cried he, choking. "I've won it--I--I--give me the 10 shillings 6 pence."

"Don't make an a.s.s of yourself," said Mills. "I tell you you've got the wrong paper; isn't that enough?"

"No, it's not enough, you thief, you!" roared Dig, tossing his tawny mane. "Everybody said you were a blackleg--I know it's all lies you're telling, and I--I--I don't care if you do lick me."

As he didn't care, of course it didn't so much matter, but Mills cut short further argument by licking him and ejecting him neck and crop from the room.

In the pa.s.sage he pitched head-first into the arms of Mr Railsford.

"What's wrong?" asked the master, looking down at the miserable face of the small savage before him.

"It's a swindle!" shouted Dig. "It's a swindle, Mr Railsford. I won it fairly--and he's a thief--he's stolen 10 shillings 6 pence of mine."

"Don't make all that noise," said Railsford quietly, for the luckless baronet was almost out of his wits. "I can hear you without shouting.

Who has robbed you?"

"Why, that blackleg swindler in there!" said Dig, pointing at Mills's door. "Ten-and-six, ten-and-six--the thief!"

"Come with me," said the master, and he led Dig back into Mills's study.

"Mills," said he, "Oakshott says you have robbed him. What does it mean?"

"I've not done anything of the kind," said Mills, himself rather pale and scared. "I told him--it was all a mistake. It wasn't my fault."

"What was a mistake? Just tell me what it is all about."

Here Dig took up the parable.