“That I’m sure he’s not,” cried the girl, indignantly, “and you oughtn’t to call him so, even if you are his uncle. Syd!”
“You tell me, then,” said Sir Hilton. “What did I—Oh, hang it all!” he cried, “I can’t remember a bit.”
“That you can’t, Sir Hilton,” said the trainer, nervously, as Sir Hilton stared at him blankly, pressing his hands to his head. “It’s just what I told you, Sir Hilton. What you want is a good night’s rest, and you’ll feel better in the morning.”
“But I feel better now—ever so much. What should I want to go to bed for? Why, I’ve only just got up.”
“Oh, dear!” groaned the trainer to himself. “I give it him too strong; I give it him too strong, and it was nothing like what one might ha’ give a horse.”
“Look here,” cried Sir Hilton, making as if to fix his visitor with a pointing finger, which he kept in motion following imaginary movements on the part of Simpkins. “I wish to goodness you’d sit still. What the dickens do you keep bobbing about like that for? What did you say—go to bed?”
“Yes, Sir Hilton.”
“But why—why? Didn’t I just get up?”
“’Bout ’nour ago, Sir Hilton. You see, we’ve driv’ over here since. You would get up and come.”
“Of course! Home—to my wife. That’s right; I can see that quite plain, and—Here you two on the sofa, what are you doing? You, Syd, let that young lady alone, sir. Sit up, my dear. It isn’t delicate for you to be going to sleep on his shoulder like that.”