THE SPORTING CHANCE.

BY

ALICE AND CLAUDE ASKEW,

AUTHORS OF "THE SHULAMITE," "THE ETONIAN," "THE PLAINS OF SILENCE," "NOT PROVEN," ETC.

ILLUSTRATED.

LONDON: WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED. 1910.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. Mostyn Makes his Debût II. Mostyn Sees the Derby III. Mostyn Accepts a Challenge IV. Mostyn is Rebellious V. Mostyn Realises his Position VI. Mostyn is put on his Mettle VII. Mostyn is Surprised VIII. Mostyn Entertains a Guest IX. Mostyn Makes a Purchase X. Mostyn Learns his Error XI. Mostyn Makes Reparation XII. Mostyn Tells his Love XIII. Mostyn Prepares for Battle XIV. Mostyn Makes an Enemy XV. Mostyn Faces Defeat XVI. Mostyn is Tempted XVII. Mostyn is Given Another Chance XVIII. Mostyn Meets with an Accident XIX. Mostyn is Better Understood XX. Mostyn Completes his Task

THE SPORTING CHANCE.

CHAPTER I. MOSTYN MAKES HIS DEBÛT.

"It may be old-fashioned to drive a coach to the Derby, but I'll be in my coffin before I'll go down any other way!" Thus, perpetrating a characteristic "bull," spoke genial and popular "Old Rory," as he was known to the best part of the world—Sir Roderick Macphane, to give him his true title.

A few minutes back he had handed over the ribbons to one of the grooms, who, with his fellow, was now busily engaged unharnessing the horses, four fine roans, as handsome a team as the heart of man could desire. "Old Rory" was a famous whip, and, in spite of his advancing years, a good all-round sportsman—a master of hounds, a familiar figure on the race-course, and as good a judge of horse and dog flesh as any in the country. In his younger days he had been an intrepid rider at the hurdles, an amateur of more than common merit.

There was, perhaps, no more popular man than "Rory" Macphane in the three kingdoms. He was laughed at, especially in Parliament, where he held a seat for an Irish division, because of his quaint sayings and frequent faux pas, but his good nature, charity, and kindness of heart were admitted on all sides. They were as palpable as his sportsmanship.

Mostyn Clithero, who occupied a seat at the back of the coach together with his friend and future brother-in-law, Pierce Trelawny, a nephew of Sir Roderick's, enjoyed the comments of the crowd as the coach threaded its way to the appointed place opposite the Grand Stand.

"That's 'Old Rory,' what owns Hipponous." How the populace murdered the colt's name! "The Derby winner—perhaps! He's one of the best. Look at the old sport sitting up there with his back as straight as a lad's! Good luck to ye, sir, and good luck to the 'oss! Hip—Hip—Hipponous!" This had become a popular catch-word, easily taken up and repeated.

Sir Roderick smiled a little and nodded now and again, quite conscious of his popularity and of that of his horse. It was the ambition of his life to win the Derby. He had tried many times and failed, but on the present occasion it looked as if he stood a good chance, for Hipponous had won the Middle Park Plate and was second favourite in the betting.

Sir Roderick stood up on the box, his back turned to the course, and made a little speech to his guests. Lady Lempiere, who had occupied the place of honour by his side, and to whom his first remark had been addressed, turned too, as in duty bound. She was a well-known society dame, no longer young but still reputed for her beauty as well as for her success upon the turf. She fixed her eyes, which were blue and liquid and full of expression, upon Major Molyneux, who sat directly behind her, and who—or so her eyes seemed to say—might soon be by her side. He was her accepted cavalier, and it was an understood thing that wherever Lady Lempiere was asked Major Molyneux must also receive his invitation.

"I want you all to understand that ceremony is a non-starter to-day," thus spoke Sir Roderick, "and this is to be a go-as-you-please race for all of you. There's lunch on the coach for any one at any time it's asked for, and the ice will give out before the wine does, though we've got a hundredweight on board. Bring as many of your friends as you like; there's enough for all. Don't worry about me: I shall probably be in the House—I mean the Paddock"—he corrected himself with a broad smile—"a place where I'm more in my element, and occasionally get listened to." He drew a deep breath as of relief at a duty performed. "Since I'm not at Westminster," he added, "I needn't talk for an hour when all I have to say is just comprised in two words: good luck!"

The little speech was greeted with laughter and applause, applause in which none was so vociferous as an individual with a bibulous red face and a white beard, who had the carefully fostered appearance of a military man. This was Captain Armitage, and he occupied the back seat together with Mostyn Clithero, Pierce Trelawny, and a fourth man, Anthony Royce by name, who from his manner rather than his speech gave the impression of being an American.

"I wonder," whispered Mostyn to his friend, "what makes the captain so particularly demonstrative?"

"The idea that he'll soon get a drink, I expect," was the answer, spoken in an undertone, although Captain Armitage had turned his back and was airily waving his hand to his daughter, Rada, who sat on the front seat, pretending to listen with interest to the conversational inanities of young Lord Caldershot.

"I guess you're right there," commented Mr. Royce, his sides shaking with silent laughter. He had a way of laughing inwardly and without any apparent reason that was rather disconcerting till one was accustomed to it; it gave the impression that he was possessed of a peculiarly selfish sense of humour. He was an Englishman by birth, though for the last twenty years he had made his home in the States, where he had accumulated a great fortune and had become a recognised power in Wall Street. He had also gained some reputation as a traveller—an explorer upon scientific lines of little-known parts of the world—and he had but recently returned from an expedition of the sort, an expedition organised and financed by himself, which had, however, only partially achieved its object.

"Armitage will punish the champagne before the day's through," he continued in a voice that was agreeably free from nasal twang. "Look at him now!" Captain Armitage had swung himself down from the coach and could be seen in interested converse with the butler, who had emerged from its interior. "He's a curious sort of fellow, is the captain. Had a big fortune once, but did it all in on the turf. Kind-hearted fellows like Rory still keep in with him for the sake of old times, and because of the girl, who's a character, too, in her way. They live in a tumble-down cottage near John Treves's training stables at Partinborough, in Cambridgeshire. It was there I first came across them, for I've a house of my own in the neighbourhood. The girl"—he nodded his head in the direction of Rada—"has a poor time of it, and just runs wild. Armitage brings her to London now and then and tries to make a dash, showing up at the big race meetings and putting on a swagger, although heaven alone knows in what wretched lodgings he hangs out! He spends most of the

time at his club, and leaves Rada to look after herself. He manages somehow to keep a horse or two in training at Treves's, but he's a sponge, and that's why I warn you two young fellows about him."

It was very clear that Anthony Royce had no liking for the bibulous captain: nor had Mostyn Clithero, even upon his shorter acquaintance, and that with good reason.

Mostyn knew nothing about racing; he was a very innocent in all matters connected with the turf. Captain Armitage had made this discovery very early in the day—when the party had met at Sir Roderick's house in Eaton Square, in fact—and he had proceeded to amuse himself at the young man's expense, a fact of which Mostyn had subsequently become uneasily aware. There was one matter especially which weighed upon his mind, and now, feeling himself with friends, he proceeded to unburden himself.

"I think," he said, "that Captain Armitage has been making fun of me. Is it true that Hipponous won the Waterloo Cup?"

There remained no doubt in Mostyn's mind after he had put that question, though his two companions let him down as gently as they could; even, as far as possible, refraining from laughter as they gave the necessary explanation.

Mostyn flushed indignantly. "It was too bad of him," he cried; "too bad. He came up and talked so amiably that I quite believed all he said. Of course, he saw at once that I was a fool. He asked me if I could remember what price Hipponous had started at for the Waterloo Cup. And later"—his voice trembled—"I asked other people if they could tell me. I asked Lord Caldershot, and he just stared at me through that beastly eye-glass of his and turned away. And then I asked Miss Armitage, to whom I had just been introduced. I couldn't make out why she laughed at me. I was a fool to come to the races at all!" he ended, miserably.

He had come full of enthusiasm, and at a personal risk of which none but he himself knew the full measure, so his sense of wrong was all the more acute. Nor was he easily appeased, though both Pierce Trelawny and Anthony Royce did their best to make light of the incident.

"It was too bad of Armitage to pull your leg," Royce said feelingly. "I'll have a word with him on the subject. But in the meanwhile forget all about it, my boy, and enjoy your day."

Anthony Royce had shown himself very well disposed towards Mostyn on the way down, fully appreciative of the young man's enthusiasm as well as his ignorance, and it was due to him that Captain Armitage, who had evinced an inclination to continue the "leg-pulling" sport, had been finally silenced.

It was by Royce's own wish that he had taken a seat at the back of the coach, giving up his place in the front to the fair-haired youth, Lord Caldershot, gorgeous with eye-glass and button-hole, who had immediately appropriated Rada Armitage as his particular property for the day. They had already established themselves in the front when Mostyn clambered up at the back, and they were laughing together, their eyes turned upon him. He was sure, even then, that he was the object of their laughter. He had taken a dislike to the girl, though he could have given no reason for the feeling.

For he had recognised—he could not fail to recognise—that Rada was young—she could not have been much over twenty—high-spirited, and good to look at. Unfortunately he was always a little diffident and shy with strange girls—qualities that were not really natural to him, but which were the result of his home training—and he had not shown himself at his best that morning. Of course, matters had not been improved when she laughed at him, apparently without cause. When he mounted the coach his one wish was that the Armitages had been left out of the party altogether. He was struck by the contrast between Royce and the captain. The former was evidently strong and masterful, possessed of a will of iron, while the latter was bombastic, given to swagger, and totally lacking in repose. He was never still for a moment: he would shuffle his feet and fidget with his hands; he would spring up from his seat and then immediately sit down again; he would wave his arms and strike attitudes. His voice was now raised to a shout, now lowered to a whisper, hardly

ever even in tone. Sometimes he would break out into snatches of song, particularly aggravating, since it usually occurred when he was being addressed. He was one of those men who seldom, even early in the morning, appear quite sober.

While on the road Armitage would have continued to make fun of Mostyn, an easy victim, had not Royce quietly intervened. The big financier had taken a fancy to the boy, and did not intend to see him bullied.

It was unfair, and particularly so because Mostyn had admitted from the first, and with becoming modesty, that he was totally lacking in racing experience. Yet he was obviously enthusiastic, and Anthony Royce, man of the world, admired the enthusiasm of the tall fair boy who was so simple and yet so manly withal. There was something about Mostyn's eyes, too; but upon this point the American was not yet sure of his ground. Mostyn Clithero was risking much that day. This jaunt to the Derby was a stolen expedition, undertaken without the knowledge of his father, and Mostyn knew quite well that when the truth came out there would be a terrible scene.

John Clithero looked upon the race-course as the devil's playground, and racing men as the devil's disciples; furthermore, he had sternly imposed this faith upon his children.

Mostyn had never accepted his father's views, though he did not dispute them. He liked horses without understanding them, and he had a good seat in the saddle, though his opportunities for riding were few and far between. It was natural that he should have a more open mind than either of his two elder brothers, James and Charles, for they had been brought up at home under their father's influence, while Mostyn had enjoyed an Eton and Oxford education, this being due to the intervention of his mother, now dead, who had probably vaguely realised that her elder sons were developing into prigs.

Mostyn, however, so far had respected his father's prejudices. He had never risked a penny in gambling of any sort; he had refused all invitations to attend race meetings; he had even avoided the theatre, this because he felt it his duty as his father's son. It was not an easy task for him, for his instincts were all towards the natural enjoyment of life: he was just a healthy-minded, well-intentioned young Englishman with nothing of the prig about him. Luckily for himself he developed a taste for athletics, and so by his prowess on the river and in the football field he gained respect both at school and University, and his prejudices were overlooked or readily forgiven. Mostyn never confided to anyone, till Pierce came upon the scene, how irksome these restraints were to him, how his inmost soul militated against them.

It was after he came down from Oxford and set to work to study for the Bar that he met Pierce Trelawny. Pierce was already engaged to Cicely, Mostyn's sister, though the match had not met with the unqualified approval of John Clithero, who considered the young man worldly-minded and fast because he went to theatres and attended race-meetings; and besides, the whole Trelawny family were conspicuously sporting. On the other hand, there was no question as to the desirability of the engagement from the social and monetary point of view, and it was to these considerations that Cicely's father had yielded, seeing nothing unreasonable in this shelving of his principles in favour of Mammon. As for Pierce, he was in love with Cicely, whose nature was akin to that of her brother Mostyn; and he did not worry his head about the rest of her family, whom he placidly despised, until he discovered that Mostyn was fashioned in a different mould. After that the two young men became firm friends, and went about a good deal together, though John Clithero looked on askance, believing

that his son was being led astray; indeed, there had been one or two rather stormy scenes, for a new spirit had been aroused in Mostyn's breast, a desire to unfurl the standard of revolt.

Then came the great temptation. Pierce Trelawny had received an invitation to drive down to the Derby on his uncle's coach, and had been told that he might take a friend with him. "Why not bring your future brother-in-law?" Sir Roderick suggested. "I mean the lad you introduced to me in the Park the other day. Rowed for his college, didn't he? Was in the Eton eight, and did well at racquets? That's the sort of boy I like—a young sportsman."

"God bless my soul!" the old gentleman cried, when Pierce explained that Mostyn had never seen a race, and the reason for this neglect. "I did not know that any sensible people held such views nowadays. They even wanted to keep us at work at Westminster on Derby day," he added, with apparent inconsistency, "but I don't look for sense in the House of Commons! That's why I went into Parliament." He meant, of course, that it was his object to convince his fellow-members of their folly.

Sir Roderick was returned for one of the divisions of Ulster, and had held his seat, undisputed, for many years. He was a Tory of the old school, staunchly loyal, and to his mind no other views were admissible. Politics, therefore, in the sense of party division, did not exist. He loathed the very word. He would say irritably, "Don't talk to me of politics, I hate 'em—and, besides, there's no such thing." His Irishisms and unconscious word contortions contributed to the amusement of the House as well as to his personal popularity.

"Bring young Clithero, Pierce," he said decidedly. "It'll do him good, open his eyes a bit. He's too fine a lad to have his head stuffed with such nonsensical ideas. How old is he, did you say? Twenty-five? Well, he's quite old enough to have a will of his own." All of which was perfectly true, but Sir Roderick, as well as Pierce, overlooked the fact that Mostyn was utterly dependent upon his father.

As it happened, John Clithero was absent from London when Pierce conveyed Sir Roderick's invitation to Mostyn, and so he could not be consulted: the hopeless task of asking his approval could not be undertaken. It was open to Mostyn to keep his own counsel: to go to the Derby on the sly—a course that did not commend itself to his straightforward nature—or to make confession when his father returned, which would be two or three days after the Derby had been run. Letter-writing was out of the question, too, for John Clithero was actually on his way home from America, where he had been upon business. He was a banker, head of the old established house of Graves and Clithero, a firm of the highest repute and universally considered as stable as the Bank of England, all the more so because of the high standard of morality demanded of all connected with it, from the partners to the humblest employee.

Mostyn did not hesitate long. He wanted to see the Derby, and he was asked to go as the guest of a man who was universally respected. Only rank prejudice could assert harm in this. It was time to make his protest. And so, the evening before the race, he quietly announced his intention to his horrified brothers.

"A beastly race-course," sniffed James. "All the riff-raff of London. An encouragement to gambling, drunkenness, and vice." James was a perfect type of the "good young man"; than that no more need be said.

"Just because father happens to be away," remarked Charles; "I suppose that's your idea of honour, Mostyn." Charles was always talking about honour. He was unhealthily stout, had pasty cheeks and long yellow hair that lacked vitality.

"I think Mostyn's quite right, and I wish I was going too," proclaimed Cicely the rebellious.

And so the wrangle proceeded. It was distinctly uncomfortable, but Mostyn was quite determined to abide by his decision. Nor had he changed his mind when the next day came.

Owing to the behaviour of Captain Armitage it had not at first been particularly pleasant for Mostyn upon the coach, but Pierce and Mr. Royce had come to the rescue, the former engaging the attention of the captain, while the latter took the boy in hand and explained certain things that he ought to know about racing. It was all done with such infinite tact that Mostyn was soon at his ease, able to enjoy the fund of anecdote with which Anthony Royce enlivened the journey, as well as the scenes by the way, the ever-changing panorama, of which he had read, but which he had never expected to see.