A Short Head 



99 



reason that he could not go straight if he tried — though 

 there is nothing to favour the behef that he ever made 

 efforts in that direction. He had trusted to this two- 

 year-old to set him on his legs again, and now the beast, 

 instead of a source of profit, had become a dead loss. 



'I see nothing good to-day,' he murmured, as he 

 angrily threw his dog out of the chair and sat down to 

 look more carefully over the programme at which he had 

 glanced. * Nothing unless Weymouth runs Bowsprit in 

 the Maiden Plate, and that's not likely. " The El Dorado 

 Club," ' he* read, turning over the paper and pausing at 

 a paragraph. ' Yes ! if that does not come off, I shall 

 be in a hole ! ' 



The El Dorado was a club in the establishment of 

 which Clifton was interested, a club which was to be 

 started by a little coterie of rooks, who hoped to beguile 

 well-feathered pigeons into their nest. Facilities for 

 betting 'on the tape' were to be provided, there was a 

 scheme for running a little racing stable under the 

 management of the committee, and Clifton hoped much 

 from the association ; indeed, that day at half-past five 

 he had an appointment to meet Montgomery Isaacson 

 and some friends who were to perform the essential 

 operation of finding the money. The last race was at 

 5.15, a circumstance which prevented Clifton from going 

 to Sandown, in view of his engagement. He was just 

 wondering what he should do, when a knock sounded on 

 the door, and, breathless from his hast}^ ascent of the 

 stairs, a well-dressed young man entered the room. 



' Good morning, Clifton ! A deuce of a business I've 

 had to find you — I didn't know you'd moved, and went 

 to your old rooms, and then had to go to the club to 

 find out where you lived. Look here. Weymouth asked 



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