Sir Hilton turned on hearing the familiar voice and stared at the speaker, who snatched the bottle from his hand.
“What are you doing?” he said sharply, as the doctor held the bottle up to the light.
“What am I doing?” cried Granton, in a rage. “Hang it, man, you’ve never been such a fool as to drink all this?”
“Yes; horrid stuff—dry—horribly dry.”
He smacked his lips two or three times over and shook his head, repeating the action, and then turned to walk right across the hall towards the door.
“C’rect cards, gents; all the runners—on’y a shilling!” come from Dandy Dinny, who appeared in the porch, staring in with curious eyes.
“Get out—curse you!” cried Sir Hilton, making a couple of sharp lashes with his whip in the man’s direction. “Take the miserable mongrel away. Dogs indeed! Dog! Man don’t want dogs who’s going to ride a big race.”
“No, nor bad cham neither,” cried Granton, furiously, catching his old friend by the arm. “Why, Hilt, you must have been mad.”
“Eh? Mad? Yes, she makes me very mad sometimes.”
“Bah! Mad to go on the drink at a time like this. Here, pull yourself together, man.”