“Which is the favourite, sir?”
“ Mr. Heppenstall. He’s gone to odds on. He was intending to preach a sermon on Brotherly Love which would have brought him home by lengths. I wonder if anything’s happened to him.”
“You could ascertain, sir, by speaking to Mr. Eustace on the telephone. He is holding the wire.”
“By Jove, yes!”
I shoved on a dressing-gown, and flew downstairs like a mighty, rushing wind. The moment I heard Eustace’s voice I knew we were for it. It had a croak of agony in it.
“Bertie?”
“Here I am.”
“Deuce of a time you’ve been. Bertie, we’re sunk. The favourite’s blown up.”
“No!”
“Yes. Coughing in his stable all last night.”
“What!”
“Absolutely! Hay-fever.”
“Oh, my sainted aunt!”
“The doctor is with him now, and it’s only a question of minutes before he’s officially scratched. That means the curate will show up at the post instead, and he’s no good at all. He is being offered at a hundred-to-six, but no takers. What shall we do?”