“Oh, I beg pardon, Sir Hilton! I’m so excited with the race that my head’s all of a shake. Hi, somebody, a clean glass!”
The barmaid ran out with the fresh glass, and she was followed by one of the other maids with a dustpan and brush.
“That’s right, my lass; be careful; don’t leave any bits.”
As he spoke he lifted the little marble table out of the maid’s way and filled the glasses again, before raising the waiter to hand it for the second time to his guest.
“No, no, Sam; one’s enough.”
“What, Sir Hilton! You won’t wet the other eye?”
“No, not even if I were not going to ride. That wine’s bad.”
“Bad, Sir Hilton?” cried the trainer, raising his own glass to the light, sniffing at it, tasting it cautiously, and then looking again at his visitor. “Mouth must be a bit out o’ taste with the excitement. Seems to me—” He raised his glass to his lips again, took a good pull, and then drained and set it down. “Beg your pardon, Sir Hilton,” he said; “I don’t set up for a judge, but I wouldn’t wish to taste a better drop o’ cham than that.”
“Glad you like it,” said Sir Hilton, tetchily.
“Try it again, sir. Give your mouth a rinse out with it, and then finish the glass.”