“Here, none of that,” said the trainer, with a savage growl. “You come to me, sir—made your bet, and I’ve booked it.”
“But I stand to lose five hundred pounds, man,” cried the agent, frantically. “Give me my money back.”
“Not a cent, sir. Chance it.”
“I heard that Josh Rowle was too bad to ride.”
“That’s true enough, sir.”
“I—I don’t understand,” cried Trimmer; “but I will not stir from here without those notes. Give me my fifty pounds.”
He caught the trainer with both hands by the coat. “Steady, my lad,” growled Simpkins. “Don’t be a fool. This is ’sault and battery, and, if I liked, I could lay you down with an ugly rap between the eyes. Steady!” he continued, with a grim smile overspreading his coarse and brutal face. “I begin to see now how it is. My, how queer! Your guv’nor must be going to ride.”
“What! Nonsense! Something to turn me off the scent. I will have my money back.”
“You won’t, Master Trimmer—not a cent; and look here, if you make that row you’ll have Sir Hilton out here to know what’s the matter.”
“Sir Hilton?” cried the man, staring wildly.