What the trainer did was to return to the bar and swallow a glass of gin
and bitters hastily, before returning to his favourite seat in the hall,
when he pulled out betting-book and pencil, threw one swollen leg over
the other, and began to chew the lead and try to master the figures
which would not stand still to be reckoned up.
"Nice day for the races," said a voice, as the door was darkened. "How
are you, Simpkins?"
The trainer looked up angrily, saw that it was an old client and friend,
and replied surlily: "Morn'n. They'll attend to you in the bar. Oh,
dear!" he muttered, "I can't hedge now."
The visitor glanced quickly round to see that they were alone, and then
pressed up close to the trainer. "Pst! Look here, Sam Simpkins."
"Didn't I tell you they'd see to you in the bar?" growled the trainer.
"Yes; but I want another fifty on Jim Crow, if you can do it."
"Eh? Yes, of course," cried the trainer, completely changing his tone
and manner; then, turning over a few leaves, he clumsily made an entry
in his book.
"Close on the run," he said apologetically.--"Horrid busy. There you
are. Ten fives. All right, Mr Trimmer."
"Not in my way, as a rule, Mr Simpkins," said Lady Lisle's agent, with a
weak grin; "but a little flutter, as you call it, is pleasant and
exciting--a nice change from the humdrum of business life."
"And very profitable too, eh, Mr Trimmer?"
"Yes; I've not done badly, Sam--thanks to you, old friend."
"No, you haven't; but go and get your glass and be off, please," said
the trainer, finishing the deposit of the crisp new banknotes by placing
them in a pocket-book, drawing on the tight elastic with a loud snap,
buttoning the book up in his breast, and giving the place a slap, which
seemed to bring out a sigh of relief.
"I won't drink this morning, thank you, Sam. I'll go out on the common
at once. How does Jim Crow look?"
"Splendid; but be off, please. I'm busy," growled the trainer.
"I understand. I shall find you here after the race. Short
settlements, eh?"
"Always on spot. Take and give sharp; that's my motter," replied the
trainer, bending down over his betting-book again without paying further
heed to his client, who nodded, smiled at the chamber maid in the
gallery, and went out softly.
"A bit back," muttered the trainer, with the ghost of a grin on his
stubbly face, as soon as he was alone. "But like nothing--like
nothing," he grumbled. "One drop in a pint pot. But let's see; let's
see."
He had not been immersed in his calculations again five minutes when
there was a hurried step, and Lady Lisle's agent came in, looking
ghastly.
"Oh, there you are, Sam," he said, hurriedly. "I've been on the common
and I've changed my mind."
"Eh? What?" said the trainer, looking up fiercely.
"That fifty I put on Jim Crow. I'll put on La Sylphide instead."
"Too late, sir. Bet booked. I never alter my entries. What's the
matter?"
"I thought Jim Crow was such a perfectly safe horse, but I hear--"