The sporting chance

								

according to his ideas, a man who ventures upon a race-course is
travelling the devil's high road.  It's wonderful what some men's
minds are capable of!"  Royce took his cigar from his mouth and gazed
at Mostyn from under his heavy brows.  "I wonder you've turned out so
well," he commented.
"I expect I'm all in the wrong for being here at all," Mostyn said,
the colour flushing his face.  He could never rid himself of that
disposition to blush.  "But I couldn't help it," he went on; "I
wanted to come, the desire of it was in my blood."  He laughed
awkwardly.  "I suppose I am different somehow to the rest of my
people."
"I am very glad you are.  You take after your mother, Mostyn, for she
came of a healthy-minded stock.  But now, tell me, what will happen
when you get home?  Or do you propose to keep this little jaunt a
secret?"  The grey eyes fixed upon Mostyn were searching.
"I shall tell my father that I went to the Derby," Mostyn replied
with some defiance in his tone, for he hated the suggestion of
underhand dealing.  "I have made no secret of it to anyone.  My
father is not at home just now, but I shall tell him when he returns."
"Good!"  Anthony Royce knocked the ash from his cigar, an ash which
he had allowed to grow to inordinate length.  "I like a man who acts
straight and isn't ashamed of what he does.  But there will be a row?"
"I expect so."  Mostyn nodded.  What was the use of denying the
obvious?
"A serious row?"
"Very possibly."  Mostyn fidgeted.  What was the good of all these
questions?  He had put aside the evil day, determined to live in the
present.  He was enjoying himself; why spoil his pleasure?  A bell
rang and the police could be seen clearing the course.  Another race
was about to be run.  Mostyn fumbled with his programme.  "Who's
going to win this event?" he asked.
"A devil of a row, if I'm not mistaken," Anthony Royce said
reflectively, ignoring the question.  "John Clithero would sacrifice
his flesh and blood upon the altar of his principles.  I'm afraid you
will get into trouble, my boy.  Well, what I want to say is this.
Come to me if things go badly with you.  Don't let any silly pride
stand in your way.  I've got an idea in my head, and you can help me
work it out.  You will be doing me a favour, far more than the other
way about.  You needn't think it a matter of charity--I'm not that
kind of man.  Furthermore, it's nothing mean or underhand that I
shall ask you--to that you have my word."  Royce had evidently read
the young man's character very well.  "Now--supposing your father
shows you the door--he may, you know--will you come to me?"
"I will," Mostyn stretched out his hand, a strong, well-made hand,
and the elder man took it in his, holding it a moment, and looking
the boy squarely in the eyes.
"That's a deal," he said, heartily; "I shall expect to see you,
Mostyn."
After the next race, a race over which Mostyn's enthusiasm was again