Chapter Fifteen.
Mephistopheles at Work.
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—”
A gasp stopped the man’s utterance. “Well, what have you heered?”
“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.