“Do you want me to win, Sam?” said Sir Hilton, sharply.
“Win, Sir Hilton? Of course. I thought I was going to lose heavily, but I’ve put it right, and it means a couple of hundred if you sail in first.”
“And if I lose?”
“I shall be just about even, Sir Hilton,” said the man, with a grin, as he held out the tray.
“Well,” said Sir Hilton, whose cheeks were flushed with excitement, “I shall win, Sam.”
He took up the clear, foaming glass, from up whose centre the tiny beads were rising fast, like a fountain, to break and add to the sparkling foam. “Here’s La Sylphide, Sam.”
“Here’s La Sylphide, Sir Hilton,” cried the trainer, “and thanking my old master for the honour done to his old trainer Simpkins, chrissen Sam.”
As he spoke he fixed his eyes full upon those of the gaily-dressed jockey facing him, and, taking his time from his guest, raised the glass to his lips and kept it there till it was drained, before holding out the salver for Sir Hilton’s empty glass.
“Bah! Too dry,” said Sir Hilton, with a slight grimace. “How long have you had that wine?”
“’Bout seven year, Sir Hilton,” replied the man, setting down the waiter and replacing the bottle by the glasses, but so clumsily that he knocked over his guest’s glass, which was shivered to atoms on the floor.