“No, no; the race, uncle—the race.”
“Of course, my boy. It’s all coming back now. That bad champagne and the buzzing of the bees.”
“Oh, dear!” groaned the trainer; “he don’t forget that, and he’s off again.”
“To be sure,” cried Sir Hilton, eagerly. “I recollect. It was ever so long ago, and the speaker was—”
“No, no, uncle; you’re getting mixed again. The starter.”
“No, my boy, the speaker in the chair, and the bell was ringing.”
“That’s right, uncle, to clear the course. Now you’re all right!”
“Yes, now I’m all right, my boy. I was in and there was a division. I rushed through the Lobby, and out into the fresh air. The mare was ready. Someone gave me a leg-up, and I was all excitement for the race.”
“That’s your sort, uncle,” cried Syd, as with his eyes fixed on one of the moonlit windows, Sir Hilton stopped, panting as if out of breath. “Bravo! Stick to the rage. He’s coming round fast now, Sam.”
“No, no; look at him. He’s as mad as a hatter.”