“Nonsense!” cried Sir Hilton, contemptuously.
“Just listen to him, my lady. Here has he been out of the game all this time, while I’ve been watching La Sylphide’s work at every race. I asks you, my lady, Is there anyone as knows the mare’s action, temper and staying powers better than me?”
“He’s right there, Hilt,” said Lady Tilborough.
“To some extent, yes,” said the gentleman addressed.
“Thank ye, Sir Hilton. Then look here; nobody would like to see you come first past the post more than your old trainer.”
“Would you, Sam?” said Sir Hilton, with a queer look at the speaker.
“All right, Sir Hilton. I understand yer alloosion. I may’ve got a bit on Jim Crow, consequent upon the misfortune to Josh Rowle; but,” he continued, closing one eye meaningly, “I can put that right easy. You win the race, Sir Hilton, and I’ll make a pot of money by it. I know the ropes.”
“You do, Sam,” said the baronet, laughing.
“And I’m glad of the charnsh to do a good turn to a couple o’ noble patrons who have put many a hundred into my pocket. Look here, Sir Hilton, there’s plenty of time yet. I am at your service. Just you take me to the mare, and let me have a few minutes with her.”
“The mare is not my property, Sam,” said Sir Hilton, laughing.