“Be off, sir! How dare you trespass on my premises!”
“Trespass, Sir Rilton? I wouldn’t do such a thing. There, I knowed you’d never drop the Turf. Whats yer ’oss’s name?”
“Cut!” cried Sir Hilton, fiercely.
“Is it, now? A sharp ’un, then, as’ll show the field its four blessed racing plates. A dark ’un, your honour?”
“Will you be off, you scoundrel!”
“Off, your honour, in a jiffy, ready to look out for you on the course. But you’ll buy the little dawg for her lovely ladyship?”
“Take the miserable mongrel away.”
“But such a companion for the long-haired tom puss, Sir Rilton.”
“Did you hear me tell you to go, sir?”
“Yes, your honour,” whispered the man, shuffling his “c’rect cards” back into his pocket with one hand, and leaning forward into the room to whisper: “I’m ’orrid hard up, Sir Rilton. Give us a tip for the cup to help a pore fellow get a honest livin’. You’ll do that for your pore old friend as touted for you all these years?”