“It was a dead certainty, as you know. They would have scratched La Sylphide at the last moment, for no one could ride her but Josh Rowle, and he’s in a strait weskit, with two nurses from the ’sylum. Dead certainty it was, when in comes your guv’nor to spoil as fine a thing as was ever planned.”
“But he mayn’t win, after all.”
“Tchah! I know the mare, don’t I? All he’s got to do is to sit still in the saddle, give her her head, and talk to her as he always knew how, and she’ll romp in past the lot. The game’s up, Mr Trimmer, and you must make the best of it. Here, don’t bear no malice. Have another drink, and take one of these.”
“C’rect card, gents; all the runners!” came again from the outside.
Simpkins’s outer breast-pocket formed his cigar-case, and he took out a couple from where they lay loose, and offered them to the agent. But the latter paid no heed, for he glanced up at the gallery and then at the bar, beyond which the two maids could be seen, busy serving.
“Sam,” whispered Trimmer at last; “quick, before it’s too late. The mare must be got at.”
Crack! went a match, and the trainer bit off the cigar end and lit up quickly.
“Here, ketch hold,” he growled. “Be sharp, or it’ll be out,” and he offered the burning match. “You talk like a fool. How?”
“You know. Such a little thing would do it. What about King Dick?”
“Hold your cursed row,” growled the trainer, threateningly.