“No, nothing.”
“Don’t you remember nearly tumbling off the horse after you’d passed the post?”
“No.”
“Nor getting into the scales, saddle and bridle and all?”
“No; nothing whatever.”
“Oh, Sam Simpkins, you must have given him a dose!”
“Yes, I remember that—that champagne. It did taste very queer and strange,” cried Sir Hilton, turning upon the trainer, whose red face looked piebald with sickly white, so strangely was it mottled.
“I’d had it a long time, Sir Hilton,” stammered the man. “P’raps it was a bit off.”
“Oh, hang that!” cried Sir Hilton. “Tell me again, Syd, my boy; did I win?”
“In a canter, I tell you, uncle,” cried the boy.