“Turn back,” she said, “and drive to where I can have a good view of the race.”
Chapter Seventeen.
La Sylphide’s Health.
“Orty, stuck-up popinjay!” growled the trainer, mopping his forehead. “But she’s got to come down. And me on pins and needles all the time for fear he should open his door and she see him! I did feel as if it might be right to let her, but his monkey would have been up, and she couldn’t have stopped him from riding. Hullo!” he said, as he saw Trimmer at the office-door. “Not gone!”
“No,” whispered the agent. “I felt obliged to stay.”
“And I feel obliged to kick you out. So cut.”
“No, no, Mr Simpkins.”
“Look here, sir, if that job’s to be done, I can do it. I don’t want no complications. You can stand by me if it gets blown and there’s a job for the police. As it is, I’ll do it or not do it, without your meddling and putting in your spoon. Take your hook, dyer hear, and before he comes.”