“Anything here for me?” inquired Sir Reginald of a gracious porter.
“No, sir; the dog-cart waited till the half-hour and then went home; but Blake said as how he would come for the express.”
“How far is it to your place?” asked Mr. Campell.
“Only two miles and a-half by the fields.”
“Then I vote we walk. Anything is better than a stifling fly this fine warm evening. ‘Quick march’ is the word,” gaily shouldering his umbrella.
His motion was carried unanimously, and, leaving their luggage to be despatched in their wake, they started off at a smart pace, each armed with a cheroot.
The great event of the following day was the one topic of Mr. Campell’s conversation. Sir Reginald lent him a ready ear, and together they made arrangements for an early visit to Tornado the next morning; they discussed weights, saddles, handicappers, and bits with much animation and enthusiasm, Captain Vaughan walking rather behind them, and smoking sullenly.
“If he’s as good as you say, he ought to be first past the post to-morrow, for his company is, after all, only second rate; and if he does pull off this race I want you to promise me one thing, Campell.”
“I’ll promise you any earthly thing, my dear fellow,” returned Captain Campell impulsively, stopping for an instant in the narrow moonlit path to give full emphasis to his asseveration.
“You will sell Tornado directly the meeting is over and give up racing for the next five years.”