The sporting chance

								

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.
He spoke little, but his eyes glittered with excitement.  To him it
was as though he was being carried into a new world, a world with
which his soul was in sympathy, but the gates of which had always
been closed.  And yet it was not so strange to him as he had
expected: perhaps in his dreams he had gazed through the gates, or
even travelled down that very road upon a visionary coach that
threaded its way proudly amid the heterogeneous traffic.  So, despite
his ignorance and inexperience, he felt in his element; he was a