"That--that Lady Tilborough's horse is going to run after all."
"Lady Tilborough's mare's scratched, they say, Mr Trimmer."
"No, no. I have it on the best authority. She's going to run."
"Oh, they say anything in the ring. Don't you take no notice. You've
put your money on a good horse, and you've got to chance it, of course.
I've a big pot on there."
"So I hear, Mr Simpkins," said the agent; "but I'm a poor man. I only
bet on sure things, and I must withdraw this bet."
"Too late, sir; can't be done now."
"But it must; it must I will have it back," cried the agent, fiercely.
"Here, none of that," said the trainer, with a savage growl. "You come
to me, sir--made your bet, and I've booked it."
"But I stand to lose five hundred pounds, man," cried the agent,
frantically. "Give me my money back."
"Not a cent, sir. Chance it."
"I heard that Josh Rowle was too bad to ride."
"That's true enough, sir."
"I--I don't understand," cried Trimmer; "but I will not stir from here
without those notes. Give me my fifty pounds."
He caught the trainer with both hands by the coat. "Steady, my lad,"
growled Simpkins. "Don't be a fool. This is 'sault and battery, and,
if I liked, I could lay you down with an ugly rap between the eyes.
Steady!" he continued, with a grim smile overspreading his coarse and
brutal face. "I begin to see now how it is. My, how queer! Your
guv'nor must be going to ride."
"What! Nonsense! Something to turn me off the scent. I will have my
money back."
"You won't, Master Trimmer--not a cent; and look here, if you make that
row you'll have Sir Hilton out here to know what's the matter."
"Sir Hilton?" cried the man, staring wildly.
"Yes; he's up there in number one, dressing for the race."
"A lie! An excuse! Give me my money!" and he clutched at the trainer
so fiercely that the bar and chamber maids came to the bar door to see.
"Ony a gent a bit upset about a bit o' coin, my dears. Here, Mary, tell
Mr Trimmer, here, who's dressing in number one."
"Sir Hilton Lisle, sir," replied the maid, and Trimmer's hands dropped
from the trainer's coat. "Anyone with him, my gal?"
"Yes, sir. Mark Willows, Sir Hilton's groom."
The agent dropped into a chair, looking as if he were going to have a
fit.
"Gent's a bit poorly. Excitement. That'll do, my gals. Stop, one of
you bring him a nip of my gin and bitters."
The two maids, well accustomed to such scenes, retired into the bar, one
of them returning with a glass upon a tray, and waiting to be paid, as
Trimmer seized the liquor and gulped it down.
"All right, my dear; my treat," said the trainer, and the next minute
the two men were alone.
"Then it's true?" faltered the agent, as he set down the glass.
"Yes, all true. Your guv'nor's going to ride La Sylphide, and a hundred
to one he wins."
"And you never told me, an old friend," said Trimmer, reproachfully.
"No friendship in betting, sir. I stand to lose a pile over the job,
and I must make a bit back. Did I ask you to put your money on Jim
Crow?"
"No--but--"
"No, but!" said the trainer, scornfully. "Take it as I do. You don't
hear me 'owl."
Trimmer, who was as white as a sheet, sat panting, as he stared hard at
the trainer, and then glanced up over his shoulder at the gallery.
"C'rect card, gentlemen--all the runners, sir," came from the outside to
break the silence, backed up by the murmur from the course.
"Sam," whispered the agent at last, and he leant towards the trainer,
"do you really stand to lose five thou'?"
"Every penny of it," growled the trainer, with a terrible oath, and a
look which bespoke his sincerity. "What's your twopenny bet to that?
This is your somethinged guvnor's doing. Confound him! I'd poison him
if I could."
"Ha!" sighed Trimmer.
"It was a dead certainty, as you know. They would have scratched La
Sylphide at the last moment, for no one could ride her but Josh Rowle,
and he's in a strait weskit, with two nurses from the 'sylum. Dead
certainty it was, when in comes your guv'nor to spoil as fine a thing as
was ever planned."
"But he mayn't win, after all."
"Tchah! I know the mare, don't I? All he's got to do is to sit still
in the saddle, give her her head, and talk to her as he always knew how,
and she'll romp in past the lot. The game's up, Mr Trimmer, and you
must make the best of it. Here, don't bear no malice. Have another
drink, and take one of these."
"C'rect card, gents; all the runners!" came again from the outside.
Simpkins's outer breast-pocket formed his cigar-case, and he took out a
couple from where they lay loose, and offered them to the agent. But
the latter paid no heed, for he glanced up at the gallery and then at
the bar, beyond which the two maids could be seen, busy serving.
"Sam," whispered Trimmer at last; "quick, before it's too late. The
mare must be got at."
Crack! went a match, and the trainer bit off the cigar end and lit up
quickly.
"Here, ketch hold," he growled. "Be sharp, or it'll be out," and he
offered the burning match. "You talk like a fool. How?"
"You know. Such a little thing would do it. What about King Dick?"
"Hold your cursed row," growled the trainer, threateningly.
"I can't," whispered the agent. "I've too much at stake. Get to the
mare at once. You, a trainer, can manage that."
"You talk like a fool, I tell you. Close upon the time like this."
"Can't you work it with the guv'nor or Lady T.?"
"No. If I could should I be sitting here jawing? Tried it on, and
failed."
"Think of your five thousand pounds."
"I tell you you can't get at the mare."
"C'rect cards, gents," came again from without, in Dandy Dinny's raucous
voice. But his cry was unheard within, where Trimmer, with a peculiar
Mephistophelian smile upon his face, gave another glance upwards at the
gallery, before leaning forward till his lips were quite close to the
trainer's great red ear, into which he whispered--
"No, of course not; but you could get at the man."
The trainer started to his feet, the cigar he had just lit falling from
his gaping mouth, just as Dandy Dinny passed the window, leering in, and
then hurried out of sight with his hawking cry, for there was the sound
of carriage wheels approaching the hotel.
Trimmer rose too, and laid his hand softly upon Simpkinss arm, as he
gazed hard in his companion's rolling eyes, now directed towards the
gallery.
"Eh?" said the trainer at last, as his eyes dropped to gaze in those
that were searching his, and he began to pass his big hand over his
mouth again and again.
Then he lowered it, still gazing hard at the agent, and lifted it once
more to his lips, but now closed as if it were holding a drinking
vessel, which he made believe to hold to his lips and drink therefrom.
The look had now become questioning.
A slowly given nod from Trimmer's head was the answer.
The big door-bell was pulled sharply, and gave forth a peal which made
the trainer start. "Someone coming," he said, rushing to the window and
thrusting out his head, to draw it back sharply.
"The missus!" he whispered.
"Lady Lisle!" gasped Trimmer, excitedly. "She mustn't see me here."
"Come in my office. Quick!"
Simpkins half-thrust his companion quickly through the door in the
corner, just as the boots passed through the porch and the barmaid came
to her door, and the next minute Lady Lisle was ushered by the boots
into the hall.
"I'll tell master, my lady," said the man, and he went to the office,
while the barmaid drew back into her highly-glazed shell.