“No, to put on the winning horse. I want the right tip. What is it?”
“I’ll make no such infamous contracts with you, sir,” cried Sir Hilton, furiously, “and I’m going out on business—business of vital importance.”
“Of course, uncle. I understand,” said the boy, mockingly.
“And I’m not going to leave you behind to make mischief between me and your aunt. Come along; I shall take you with me in the dogcart I have waiting.”
“All right, uncle. I know.”
“And as a prisoner, sir.”
“That’s your sort, uncle.”
“You wicked young wretch! Come along, quick!”
“Quick as quicksilver, uncle,” cried the boy, grinning, as, evading his uncle’s clutch, he thrust his hand through his elder’s arm. “Here, I may as well put the pot on as it seems to be something extra good, so you’ll have to make it two fivers, uncle, and two make ten.”
Sir Hilton uttered a wicked word totally unfitted for the ears of youth standing in such close relationship to him, and a few minutes later the dogcart—with uncle and nephew in front, and Mark grinning to himself as he sat behind pressing the bag so that it could not drop off—spun out of the yard gate, and off and away by the back lanes for the Tilborough road, now pretty lively with vehicles of all sorts, all bound in the same direction.