“Sorry to see her ladyship so down in the mouth now. You should put her up to a bit of hedging on Jim Crow.”
Granton gave him a peculiar look, full of perfect content, and laughed aloud.
“Moonshine!” he cried, and dashed after the sporting countess.
Chapter Thirteen.
“My Daughter and my Son-in-Law.”
“Moonshine!” said the trainer, with a puzzled look after the departing doctor. “Laughing like an idiot. Rum how it takes different people. Here’s my stepping lady looking as if she meant to take pyson in her five o’clock tea, the doctor regularly off his chump, and I dessay someone’ll go home by train to-night, load a revolver, and—click! All over. Well, they shouldn’t meddle with what they don’t understand. Reg’lar gambling, and they deserve all they get. Hullo! You here again?”
This to the pink-coated tout, who came smiling and cringing up to the door.
“Brought yer a tip. Something good, Mr Simpkins, sir.”