I stared after him in blank amazement. Why should I put my shirt
on Mrs. Waller? Even if it would fit a lady. And how about
myself?
I was passing the grand stand, and, glancing up, I saw "Mrs.
Waller, twelve to one," chalked on a bookmaker's board. Then it
dawned upon me that "Mrs. Waller" was a horse, and, thinking
further upon the matter, I evolved the idea that my friend's
advice, expressed in more becoming language, was "Back 'Mrs.
Waller' for as much as you can possibly afford."
"Thank you," I said to myself, "I have backed cast-iron certainties
before. Next time I bet upon a horse I shall make the selection by
shutting my eyes and putting a pin through the card."
But the seed had taken root. My friend's words surged in my brain.
The birds passing overhead twittered, "Put your shirt on 'Mrs.
Waller.'"
I reasoned with myself. I reminded myself of my few former
ventures. But the craving to put, if not my shirt, at all events
half a sovereign on "Mrs. Waller" only grew the stronger the more
strongly I battled against it. I felt that if "Mrs. Waller" won
and I had nothing on her, I should reproach myself to my dying day.
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