Hard Pressed by Fred M. White — Read

Copley rose as if the interview were over, and he had done all he could for his friend. But Sir George lingered. He stood gazing into the fire thoughtfully and moodily. Copley's last shaft had gone home. Sir George's whole nature revolted from spending a week in the company of the man in possession. He wanted to gain time, to have an opportunity to consider matters, and, above all, to get rid of the incubus which, in his mind's eye, he could see seated patiently in the library at Haredale Park. Yet he also knew what he ought to have done. He ought either to have knocked Copley down out of hand, or to have walked out of the house with a curt intimation that he and Copley must be strangers in the future.

But, like the weak man he was, when the pinch came he did neither of these things. It would never have occurred to him to assert that he was a man of honour. All the world had taken it for granted, and in this opinion Sir George shared. But, on the other hand, he was face to face with disgrace, and in a few days would be homeless and penniless, a mark for the finger of scorn, and the object of pity of those whom he had looked down upon from a lofty standpoint. But was there, after all, any great harm in what Copley suggested? Scores of owners of horses had done such things before, and he had a genuine excuse for drawing the pen through the name of the Blenheim colt, since it had fallen ill. If other people benefited by the knowledge, it was no concern of his. If the colt were no better at the end of a fortnight, he could be scratched and things go on as they were. Besides, the colt was a good one, and in the autumn there would be every chance of winning the St. Leger with him.