Chapter Eighteen.
How the Bees Swarmed.
“Ah, Hilt, old chap, there you are! Lady T. says you must come at once, and—Hang it, man, don’t do that!”
Sir Hilton turned on hearing the familiar voice and stared at the speaker, who snatched the bottle from his hand.
“What are you doing?” he said sharply, as the doctor held the bottle up to the light.
“What am I doing?” cried Granton, in a rage. “Hang it, man, you’ve never been such a fool as to drink all this?”
“Yes; horrid stuff—dry—horribly dry.”
He smacked his lips two or three times over and shook his head, repeating the action, and then turned to walk right across the hall towards the door.
“C’rect cards, gents; all the runners—on’y a shilling!” come from Dandy Dinny, who appeared in the porch, staring in with curious eyes.
“Get out—curse you!” cried Sir Hilton, making a couple of sharp lashes with his whip in the man’s direction. “Take the miserable mongrel away. Dogs indeed! Dog! Man don’t want dogs who’s going to ride a big race.”
“No, nor bad cham neither,” cried Granton, furiously, catching his old friend by the arm. “Why, Hilt, you must have been mad.”
“Eh? Mad? Yes, she makes me very mad sometimes.”
“Bah! Mad to go on the drink at a time like this. Here, pull yourself together, man.”
“Drink?” said Sir Hilton, sharply, his voice perfectly clear and distinct. “Yes, cursed stuff! Gooseberry wine, I believe. Vintage of France? Pish! Pretty France! Old gooseberry! Don’t order any more, Jack. Dry champagne; dry enough to mix with paint. Have S. and B.”
“Here, I’m not going to bully you now. Shake yourself up. You must be coming on now.”
“Eh? What for? Coming on?”
“Yes!” cried Granton, in a passion. “Hang it, man, you’re regularly fuddled!”
“Fuddled? I? Absurd! Only a glass or two. Look at me. Fuddled! You’re a fool, Jack! Oh, yes, I remember—the race.”
“Then come on,” cried Granton. “You look all right.”
“Oh, yes, I’m all right. Did you think I was tight?”
“Well, something of the kind. Come along.”
“Don’t hang on to a man like that,” said Sir Hilton, shaking himself free with an angry jerk. “Want to spoil my satin? Hi! Ha! Sh!”
He made a rush, and two or three cuts in the air with his whip, which the trainer, who was standing back in the office watching, took to mean given at him, and slipped behind the door.
Granton did not see him, his attention being taken up by the insane action of his friend, whom he once more caught by the arm.
“What’s the matter with you?” he shouted. “Are you going daft?”
“Eh? What?” cried Sir Hilton, looking at him angrily. “Nonsense! Can’t you see the little beasts?”
“D.T., by jingo!” muttered the doctor. “Why, he must have been on the drink for a week! I must get him there somehow. Here, Hilt, old man, its saddling up and weighing time. Come on. La Sylphide looks lovely, and Lady T. all anxiety about you. Rouse up, old chap.”
“All right. Wait till I’ve killed a few of these little beasts.”
To the horror and astonishment of his friend, Sir Hilton made another dash and rush, darting here and there all over the hall, cutting and swishing about with his heavy riding-whip as if it were a sabre, and he a mounted cavalry man, putting the well-learnt pursuing practice well into effect upon the enemy he seemed to see.
“What the deuce shall I do?” muttered the doctor, breathlessly, after playing the enemy in his efforts to escape a slash.
“That cham, Jack,” cried Sir Hilton, catching his friend by the arm. “Sham, and no mistake. Not fizz at all, but that old brewing of honey—mead—metheglin—old Saxon swizzle. There they go again—the bees—swarming—all round and round my head. Yah! Look out—you’ll be stung.”
“Oh, I’m all right,” said Granton, humouring him. “Be cool. Stand still a moment, and let them go.”
“Thousands upon thousands of them,” cried Sir Hilton. “B-r-r-r-r-r! Look how they dart about in diamonds, zig-zags, rhomboids—buzz-z!”
“Yes. How queer!” said Granton, taking the speaker’s arm again. “Let’s walk quietly out into the air. They won’t follow us out.”
“I don’t know,” cried the unfortunate man, shaking himself free and holding his hand and whip as if to guard his head. “Buzz! B-r-r-r! How they are going it! Jack, old man, someone ought to get a hive. Rub it with beer and sugar. Take the swarm, you know. Swarm of bees, you know.”
“Swarm of bees in May.”
“Is worth a load of hay.”
“Yes, old man; but we haven’t time now. Come along. La Sylphide’s waiting. Oh, if I could only get him mounted! He’d ride like the very deuce, thinking that the bees were after him.”
“Let me be, you fool!” cried Sir Hilton, angrily. “Take care of yourself, you coward. You’ll be getting us both stung. Oh, I see; on the look-out for a job. Cure the patient’s stings. Ammonia, eh? I know. Country gentleman picks up a bit. Here, horrible!” he cried, with a frantic leap aside. “They’re settling on me. Swarms—millions—hanging in pockets like they do outside a hive. Buzz-uzz-zz! Here, Jack, old man, I daren’t move. Come and sweep ’em off. Steady—softly. Quiet does it. There she is—the queen. Take her gently. She won’t sting. That’s good; now pop her in the hive, and they’ll all follow her. Hah-h-h-h! That’s better. Awkward position for a man to have the bees settling upon him and getting into his hair.”
“Very, old chap; but they’re all gone now.”
“Not quite, Jack. Don’t you hear the mur-mur-mur-mur—?”
“Oh, yes; quite plain.”
“Pooh!” cried Sir Hilton, with a sudden change coming over him. “What a fool I am! I thought it was the bees, and all the time it’s only the murmur of the crowd on the racecourse.”
“Why, so it is,” said the doctor. “I thought it was bees.”
“No, the people; and I’ve got to ride in the big race.”
“To be sure, so you have, old chap. Suppose we go and look at the mare.”
Sir Hilton was quite quiet now, and looked at him seriously.
“Oh, my poor darling!” groaned the doctor. “Whatever shall I do? If I got him a dose he wouldn’t be fit to ride. Coming, Hilt?” he said calmly.
“Yes, directly, Jack. Let’s see. I must be quite cool and steady, and not fidget the mare. It’s a safe thing, and as soon as I’ve won this race I’ll be tempted no more, Jack, but settle down with the wife—bless her! She means well, Jack. This coup will make me independent, and balance matters. I shall take my position then, you see, and not feel so poverty-stricken—asking one’s wife for every sov.”
“I see. Come along,” said the doctor. “If I could only get him out into the air. I daren’t give him more drink.”
“Don’t hurry me,” said Sir Hilton, coolly rearranging his silk and pulling up his breeches. “I want you to understand, Jack. I’m doing this for independence, to save dear Lady T.—bless her! A good woman. Always been like a sister to me. Jolly little widow! And to make a pile for you, old man, so that you can marry her, have two children, and live happy ever after like a good boy.”
“Yes, that’s it, Hilt, old man,” cried the doctor, desperately, for the clanging of a bell on the racecourse came faintly to his ear. “Come along, then, and win. Quick!”
He caught his old friend by the arm to get him out at all hazards; but it was like touching a spring which set free a lid in the poor fellow’s brain.
For, with a fierce cry—which brought the perspiration out in great drops over the trainer’s face where he listened and watched—Sir Hilton began rushing about the hall again, cutting and slashing furiously.
“Here they are again,” he cried; “thousands—millions of them. B-r-r-r-r-r-r! Sets my head on fire. Keep off, you little imps. There, there, and there! Hah!” he cried at last, dropping breathlessly into a chair. “Br! I was too much for them,” he said, laughing weakly. “Rather queer, though, for them to choose a race day to swarm. But—I’ve got to win, and I mean to.”
“Here, Hilt, old chap,” said Granton, who as a last resource had determined to try a hair of the dog which had bitten his friend, and he drained three-parts of a glass of the champagne into one of the glasses, and was offering it to his friend—“tip this drop off and come on.”
The words acted like magic. Sir Hilton started up and dashed the wine aside.
“What!” he cried. “Do you think I’m mad? Drink at a time like this? No, sir!”
“No, dear; wait here,” cried Syd, outside. “I’ll join you again directly I’ve found him,” and Syd rushed in breathlessly.
“Who’s that?” cried Sir Hilton.
“Oh, there you are, uncle! Hooray! You look splendid. The winning colours. Hooray! I’ve got on that tenner.”
“Here, Syd,” cried Sir Hilton, catching the boy by the arm and whispering mysteriously, “can you hear the bees?”
“Hear the what?” cried the boy, staring.
“The bees; they’re coming back—swarming. Buzz—buzz—buzz! Listen! There they go!”
“Gammon, uncle. It’s the crowd on the course—swarming in thousands.”
“Yes, that’s it, Syd. Take care, you’ll get stung, my boy! Ugh! You beast! Would you!” and whish, whish, whish went the whip, as an imaginary insect was beaten down to the floor and followed and stamped on by its slayer. “That has settled you.”
“Why, doctor,” cried Syd, who had been staring at his uncle, open-mouthed, “don’t say he’s coxybobus!”
“I wasn’t going to, my boy, but he’s horribly screwed.”
“Screwed? He can’t ride. It must be D.T. Here, uncle,” cried the boy, seizing him and shaking him violently, “pull yourself together. You’ve got to ride.”
“Yes, all right, my boy; and your aunt must never know. There, don’t tear my shirt. Hear them—the bees again? Do you recollect, my little man, ‘How doth the little busy bee,’ eh?”
At that moment Molly, wondering at the buzz of conversation within, forgot her young husband’s orders to wait, and came into the hall, to stare wonderingly.
“Oh, Syd, what is the matter with your uncle?”
“Don’t bother. Got ’em. What’s to be done, doctor? Here, I know,” he said, staring the while at Sir Hilton, who had seized a chair, turned it, and sat down crosswise, to keep on lashing at imaginary bees. “Soda—”
“Water,” cried the doctor.
“I’ll fetch a bottle,” cried Syd.
“Cold, to the head,” cried the doctor. “Pump. No; I’ll fetch a pail. No; I know, and I’ll risk it, for it’s our only chance.”
As the pair rushed off, the one into the bar, the other through the porch, two of the maids appeared as audience in the gallery, two more in the bar entrance, and the trainer, perspiring profusely, remained in his private box—to wit, the office, watching for the outcome of Trimmer’s plan, while his gaily-dressed child approached the stricken man sympathetically.