"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

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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.

After all, if he lost it would not be he who paid, and to 'lay it off'

would reduce his winnings to some fifteen hundred--hardly enough to

purchase a dancer out and out. Even more potent was the itch in the

blood of all the Darties for a real flutter. And turning to George he

said: "She's a clipper. She'll win hands down; I shall go the whole

hog." George, who had laid off every penny, and a few besides, and stood

to win, however it came out, grinned down on him from his bulky

height, with the words: "So ho, my wild one!" for after a chequered

apprenticeship weathered with the money of a deeply complaining Roger,

his Forsyte blood was beginning to stand him in good stead in the

profession of owner.

There are moments of disillusionment in the lives of men from which the

sensitive recorder shrinks. Suffice it to say that the good thing fell

down. Sleeve-links finished in the ruck. Dartie's shirt was lost.

Between the passing of these things and the day when Soames turned his

face towards Green Street, what had not happened!

When a man with the constitution of Montague Dartie has exercised

self-control for months from religious motives, and remains unrewarded,

he does not curse God and die, he curses God and lives, to the distress

of his family.

Winifred--a plucky woman, if a little too fashionable--who had borne

the brunt of him for exactly twenty-one years, had never really believed

that he would do what he now did. Like so many wives, she thought she

knew the worst, but she had not yet known him in his forty-fifth year,

when he, like other men, felt that it was now or never. Paying on

the 2nd of October a visit of inspection to her jewel case, she was

horrified to observe that her woman's crown and glory was gone--the

pearls which Montague had given her in '86, when Benedict was born, and

which James had been compelled to pay for in the spring of '87, to save

scandal. She consulted her husband at once. He 'pooh-poohed' the matter.

They would turn up! Nor till she said sharply: "Very well, then, Monty,

I shall go down to Scotland Yard myself," did he consent to take the

matter in hand. Alas! that the steady and resolved continuity of design

necessary to the accomplishment of sweeping operations should be liable

to interruption by drink. That night Dartie returned home without a

care in the world or a particle of reticence. Under normal conditions

Winifred would merely have locked her door and let him sleep it off, but

torturing suspense about her pearls had caused her to wait up for him.

Taking a small revolver from his pocket and holding on to the dining

table, he told her at once that he did not care a cursh whether she

lived s'long as she was quiet; but he himself wash tired o' life.

Winifred, holding onto the other side of the dining table, answered:




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