“Nice day for the races,” said a voice, as the door was darkened. “How are you, Simpkins?”
The trainer looked up angrily, saw that it was an old client and friend, and replied surlily: “Morn’n. They’ll attend to you in the bar. Oh, dear!” he muttered, “I can’t hedge now.”
The visitor glanced quickly round to see that they were alone, and then pressed up close to the trainer. “Pst! Look here, Sam Simpkins.”
“Didn’t I tell you they’d see to you in the bar?” growled the trainer.
“Yes; but I want another fifty on Jim Crow, if you can do it.”
“Eh? Yes, of course,” cried the trainer, completely changing his tone and manner; then, turning over a few leaves, he clumsily made an entry in his book.
“Close on the run,” he said apologetically.—“Horrid busy. There you are. Ten fives. All right, Mr Trimmer.”
“Not in my way, as a rule, Mr Simpkins,” said Lady Lisle’s agent, with a weak grin; “but a little flutter, as you call it, is pleasant and exciting—a nice change from the humdrum of business life.”
“And very profitable too, eh, Mr Trimmer?”
“Yes; I’ve not done badly, Sam—thanks to you, old friend.”