"No real sportsman cares for money,"he would say,borrowing a 'pony'if it was no use trying for a 'monkey.'There was something delicious about Montague Dartie.He was,as George Forsyte said,a 'daisy.'
The morning of the Handicap dawned clear and bright,the last day of September,and Dartie who had travelled to Newmarket the night before,arrayed himself in spotless checks and walked to an eminence to see his half of the filly take her final canter:If she won he would be a cool three thou.in pocket--a poor enough recompense for the sobriety and patience of these weeks of hope,while they had been nursing her for this race.But he had not been able to afford more.Should he 'lay it off'at the eight to one to which she had advanced?This was his single thought while the larks sang above him,and the grassy downs smelled sweet,and the pretty filly passed,tossing her head and glowing like satin.