ers produced his checkbook and made out a check in favor of Mr. Sammy Galloway for that amount.
Six weeks later the fashionable sporting crowd put in its annual appearance on Aintree racecourse. It was tall-hatted and fur-coated, and as different from a summer-season racing crowd as could easily be imagined. The people who brave the March winds at Aintree are those who go racing for the love of it, and not just because it happens to be the thing to do.
Galloway, most immaculately dressed, leaned against the paddock railing and talked through it to his friend Allison. Allison was overcoated from ears to heels; he looked thinner than when he and Sammy had talked together at the club, but the glow of health was on him, and he seemed happy as a school-boy.
"What odds are they laying?" demanded Allison.
"Twenty to one!"
"I don't wonder!" said Allison, looking over his shoulder at Souffriere. The big red devil of a horse was being led round and round the paddock at
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