Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (114 page)

"Oh!
Will
you!
And
is
father
not
lucky?"

"Very
unlucky,
I
should
say,"
she
said
bitterly.

The
boy
watched
her
with
unsure
eyes.

"Why?"
he
asked.

"I
don't
know.
Nobody
ever
knows
why
one
person
is
lucky
and another
unlucky."

"Don't
they?
Nobody
at
all?
Does
nobody
know?" "Perhaps
God!
But
He
never
tells."

"He
ought
to,
then.
And
aren't
you
lucky,
either,
mother?" "I
can't
be,
if
I
married
an
unlucky
husband."
"But
by
yourself,
aren't
you?"

"I
used
to
think
I
was,
before
I
married.
Now
I
think
I
am
very unlucky
indeed."
"Why?"

"Well—never
mind!
Perhaps
I'm
not
really,"
she
said.

The
child
looked
at
her,
to
see
if
she
meant
it.
But
he
saw,
by
the lines
of
her
mouth,
that
she
was
only
trying
to
hide
something
from him.

"Well,
anyhow,"
he
said
stoutly,
"I'm
a
lucky
person." "Why?"
said
his
mother,
with
a
sudden
laugh. He
stared
at
her.
He
didn't
even
know
why
he
had
said
it. "God
told
me,"
he
asserted,
brazening
it
out.

"I
hope He did, dear!"
she said, again with a laugh, but rather bitter. "He did, mother!"

"Excellent!" said the mother, using
one of her husband's exclamations.

The boy saw she did not believe him; or
rather, that she paid no attention to his assertion. This angered him somewhat,
and made him want to compel her attention.

He went off by himself, vaguely, in a
childish way, seeking for the clue to "luck." Absorbed, taking no
heed of other people, he went about with a sort of stealth, seeking inwardly
for luck. He wanted luck, he wanted it, he wanted it. When the two girls were
playing dolls, in the nursery, he would sit on his big rocking-horse, charging
madly into space, with a frenzy that made the little girls peer at him
uneasily. Wildly the horse careered, the waving dark hair of the boy tossed,
his eyes had a strange glare in them. The little girls dared not speak to him.

When he had ridden to the end of his mad little journey, he climbed down
and stood in front of his rocking-horse, staring fixedly into its lowered face.
Its red mouth was slightly open, its big eye was wide and glassy bright.

"Now!" he would silently command the snorting steed. "Now
take me to where there is luck! Now take me!"

And he would slash the horse on the neck with
the little whip he had asked Uncle Oscar for. He knew the horse could take him
to where there was luck, if only he forced it. So he would mount again, and
start on his furious ride, hoping at last to get there. He knew he could get
there.

"You'll break your horse, Paul!" said
the nurse.

"He's always riding like that! I wish he'd leave off!" said
his elder sister Joan.

But he only glared down on them in silence.
Nurse gave him up. She could make nothing of him. Anyhow he was growing beyond
her.

One day his mother and his
Uncle Oscar came in when he was on one of his furious rides. He did not speak
to them.

"Hallo! you young jockey! Riding a
winner?" said his uncle.

"Aren't you growing too big for a
rocking-horse? You're not a very little boy any longer, you know," said
his mother.

But Paul only gave a blue
glare from his big, rather close-set eyes. He would speak to nobody when he was
in full tilt. His mother watched him with an anxious expression on her face.

At last he suddenly stopped forcing his horse
into the mechanical gallop, and slid down.

"Well, I got there!" he announced
fiercely, his blue eyes still flaring, and his sturdy long legs straddling
apart.

"Where did you get to?" asked his mother.

"Where I wanted to go to," he flared back at her.

"That's right, son!" said Uncle
Oscar. "Don't you stop till you get there. What's the horse's name?"

"He doesn't have a name," said the boy.

"Gets on without all right?" asked the uncle.

"Well, he has different names. He was called Sansovino last
week."

"Sansovino, eh? Won the Ascot. How did you know his name?"

"He always talks about horse-races with Bassett," said Joan.

The uncle was delighted to find that his
small nephew was posted with all the racing news. Bassett, the young gardener
who had been wounded in the left foot in the war, and had got his present job
through Oscar Cresswell, whose batman he had been, was a perfect blade of the
"turf." He lived in the racing events, and the small boy lived with
him.

Oscar Cresswell got it all from Bassett.

"Master Paul comes and asks me, so I can't do more than tell him,
sir," said Bassett, his face terribly serious, as if he were speaking of
religious matters.

"And does he ever put anything on a horse he fancies?"

"Well—I don't want to give him away—he's a young sport, a fine
sport, sir. Would you mind asking him himself? He sort of takes a pleasure in
it, and perhaps he'd feel I was giving him away, sir, if you don't mind."

Bassett was serious as a church.

The uncle went back to his nephew, and took
him off for a ride in the car.

"Say, Paul, old man,
do you ever put anything on a horse?" the uncle asked. The boy watched the
handsome man closely. "Why, do you think
I
oughtn't to?" he parried.

"Not
a
bit
of
it!
I
thought
perhaps
you
might
give
me
a
tip
for
the Lincoln."

The
car
sped
on
into
the
country,
going
down
to
Uncle
Oscar's place
in
Hampshire. "Honour
bright?"
said
the
nephew. "Honour
bright,
son!"
said
the
uncle. "Well,
then,
Daffodil."

"Daffodil!
I
doubt
it,
sonny.
What
about
Mirza?"

"I
only
know
the
winner,"
said
the
boy.
"That's
Daffodil!"

"Daffodil,
eh?"

There
was
a
pause.
Daffodil
was
an
obscure
horse
comparatively.

"Uncle!"

"Yes,
son?"

"You
won't
let
it
go
any
further,
will
you?
I
promised
Bassett."

"Bassett
be
damned,
old
man!
What's
he
got
to
do
with
it?"

"We're
partners!
We've
been
partners
from
the
first!
Uncle,
he
lent me
my
first
five
shillings,
which
I
lost.
I
promised
him,
honour
bright, it
was
only
between
me
and
him:
only
you
gave
me
that
ten-shilling note
I
started
winning
with,
so
I
thought
you
were
lucky.
You
won't let
it
go
any
further,
will
you?"