“Overboard?”
“Yes,” said Trevor, with his face once more all smiles—“and fished him out!”
Rather Unpleasant.
“Ah,” said Pratt, after a brisk walk, “it might have been worse; it all comes of getting on knife-boards. I never do go on a ’bus but I’m sure to meet some one I don’t want to see from that elevated position. Let’s see: in somebody’s fables one poor bird got his neck wrung through being in bad company, and getting caught by the fowler.”
“And what has that to do with knife-boards?”
“Only this,” said Frank, grimly; “I should uncommonly like to see that barouche; and the cocky old gentleman inside will be safe to give us credit for being the ringleaders of those rowdies.”
“Well, never mind,” said Trevor; “I wanted to see a steeplechase, though I don’t suppose I shall like it any more than a ball.”
No more was said then, for they had reached the ground flagged out for the course—a pleasant tract running round in front of a mound-like hill, affording the spectators from the various stands a capital view of the whole race; save where here and there a tiny copse intervened, so that it must inevitably hide the horses for a few moments.
They were in ample time, for twelve, one, and two o’clock upon racing cards are very different hours to those represented upon the time-tables at our various termini; so they had a stroll round, pausing here or there; but, no matter where they strayed, so sure as Frank Pratt turned his head, it was to see the evil-looking countenance of their companion on the omnibus close at hand, though whether Trevor had seen him or not he could not tell.