“No, you haven’t; but go and get your glass and be off, please,” said the trainer, finishing the deposit of the crisp new banknotes by placing them in a pocket-book, drawing on the tight elastic with a loud snap, buttoning the book up in his breast, and giving the place a slap, which seemed to bring out a sigh of relief.
“I won’t drink this morning, thank you, Sam. I’ll go out on the common at once. How does Jim Crow look?”
“Splendid; but be off, please. I’m busy,” growled the trainer.
“I understand. I shall find you here after the race. Short settlements, eh?”
“Always on spot. Take and give sharp; that’s my motter,” replied the trainer, bending down over his betting-book again without paying further heed to his client, who nodded, smiled at the chamber maid in the gallery, and went out softly.
“A bit back,” muttered the trainer, with the ghost of a grin on his stubbly face, as soon as he was alone. “But like nothing—like nothing,” he grumbled. “One drop in a pint pot. But let’s see; let’s see.”
He had not been immersed in his calculations again five minutes when there was a hurried step, and Lady Lisle’s agent came in, looking ghastly.
“Oh, there you are, Sam,” he said, hurriedly. “I’ve been on the common and I’ve changed my mind.”
“Eh? What?” said the trainer, looking up fiercely.
“That fifty I put on Jim Crow. I’ll put on La Sylphide instead.”