“No, no, no, no!” cried the girl. “Syd and I want to get out on the common to see all the races.”
“Bah! You two won’t be thinking about the races, I know. Look here, though, son-in-law. Some day, I’ll give you the right tip;” and then, in a whisper from behind his hand, “Jim Crow—the dark horse.”
“What for?”
“What for?” cried the trainer, contemptuously. “Why, the cup.”
“Nonsense?”
“That’s right, boy.”
“No, no,” cried Syd, giving his young wife’s arm a hug. “La Sylphide.”
“Out of it. Jock in a straight weskit.”
“Out of it be hanged, sir! She runs to win, with Uncle Hilton up.”
“Come along, Syd,” cried Molly, and the pair ran out like a couple of schoolchildren, nearly cannoning against Mark Willows, who was coming up with Sir Hilton’s bag and overcoat, and making him turn to look after them, while Sam Simpkins stood gasping like a great, red-faced carp which had leaped out of the edge of a pond and landed in an element not suited to its nature.