“Oh, here’s a game,” began Mark. “Quick, here’s master, and I haven’t put out his duds.”
The groom dashed through the door the girl threw open just as Sir Hilton, who had been to the paddock, came up to the porch ready to meet the trainer, who was coming from the bar wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
“It’s all up!” he groaned to himself.
“Ah, Sam Simpkins, how are you? Surprised to see me here again, eh?”
“Sur-prised ain’t the word for it, Sir Hilton,” cried the trainer, making an effort to look landlordly, and speaking in boisterous tones. “Staggered, Sir Hilton. That’s nearer the mark; but come in, Sir Hilton. Puts me in mind o’ the good old days. My word! Who’d ha’ thought it? I jest heered of it. And you’re going to ride, Sir Hilton?”
“I am, Sam.”
“Your old mare, Sir Hilton?”
“No,” said Sir Hilton, frowning. “My old friend Lady Tilborough’s mare, in consequence of—”
“Yes, I heered, Sir Hilton; her jockey, Josh Rowle’s been on the drink again. Dear, dear! I keep a house, but what I say to people who come to my bar or to the tap is—”
“Yes—yes, I know. My man here?”