For, with a fierce cry—which brought the perspiration out in great drops over the trainer’s face where he listened and watched—Sir Hilton began rushing about the hall again, cutting and slashing furiously.
“Here they are again,” he cried; “thousands—millions of them. B-r-r-r-r-r-r! Sets my head on fire. Keep off, you little imps. There, there, and there! Hah!” he cried at last, dropping breathlessly into a chair. “Br! I was too much for them,” he said, laughing weakly. “Rather queer, though, for them to choose a race day to swarm. But—I’ve got to win, and I mean to.”
“Here, Hilt, old chap,” said Granton, who as a last resource had determined to try a hair of the dog which had bitten his friend, and he drained three-parts of a glass of the champagne into one of the glasses, and was offering it to his friend—“tip this drop off and come on.”
The words acted like magic. Sir Hilton started up and dashed the wine aside.
“What!” he cried. “Do you think I’m mad? Drink at a time like this? No, sir!”
“No, dear; wait here,” cried Syd, outside. “I’ll join you again directly I’ve found him,” and Syd rushed in breathlessly.
“Who’s that?” cried Sir Hilton.
“Oh, there you are, uncle! Hooray! You look splendid. The winning colours. Hooray! I’ve got on that tenner.”
“Here, Syd,” cried Sir Hilton, catching the boy by the arm and whispering mysteriously, “can you hear the bees?”
“Hear the what?” cried the boy, staring.