“Yes, Sir Hilton. Up in your old room, number one. But, ahem! Beg pardon, Sir Hilton, you can trust me,” said the trainer, dropping his voice. “Do you, eh—understand me, Sir Hilton—man who’s seen a deal o’ business for you—you—you don’t ride to win?”
“Why, you—”
“Ah, Hilt, dear boy!” cried Lady Tilborough, hurrying in. “I saw you come up to the porch, but couldn’t overtake you. Man of your word.”
“I hope so,” said Sir Hilton, turning to give the old trainer a withering look.
“Oh, murder!” muttered the man, wiping his brow, now all covered with a heavy dew. “What shall I do? It’s a smasher.”
“Seen our beauty?” said Lady Tilborough.
“Yes; I’ve been to look. She’s in splendid form.”
“Thank you, old man; that does me good.”
“A bit too fine, though,” continued Sir Hilton, who had been watching the trainer narrowly, and seeing his state and guessing the cause, felt a little compassionate. “What do you say, Sam?”
“Well, Sir Hilton, if you ask me, I say I haven’t had her training lately, but I’ll give you, an old patron, my honest opinion—not a bit, sir—and if you’ll take my advice you’ll play a quiet game with the mare. That’s the winning card.”