“Don’t, uncle! Pull yourself together. You’re sliding back again.”
“Yes; stop him,” cried the trainer, seizing his victim and shaking him hard. “Don’t go back, Sir Hilton; if you don’t come round now, see what it means for me and my pore gal.”
“Oh, uncle, you’re going off again,” said Syd, excitedly. “Do hold on to something, and don’t keep sliding back. Try—try. Now give your head a good shake to make it work. Here, Sam Simpkins, don’t you think we might give him a dose of spirits to wind him up?”
“No, no,” cried the trainer, excitedly. “With a head like this there is no knowing what might happen to him.”
“But I can’t let him stop like this. There, don’t waggle your head any more, uncle; try if you can remember now.”
“No; nothing but the bees, my boy.”
“The bees?”
“Yes, my boy, and the rushing after the poll. Oh, yes, I’m beginning to recollect now. The election, and the race against Watcombe, the brewer.”
“Race?” cried Syd. “That’s the right clue, uncle. Now you’re beginning to go again. That shaking did it. Now hold tight to the ‘race.’”
“Yes, my boy; I remember all right now; heading the poll and leaving the brewer nowhere.”