“Simmonds, you are positively cantankerous. I can spare the time.”
“The first race is at 1.30, my lord,” muttered Dale, greatly daring.
Medenham laughed.
“You, too?” he cried. “Someone has given you a tip, I suppose?”
Dale flushed under this direct analysis of his feelings. He grinned sheepishly.
“I am told that Eyot can’t lose the first race, my lord,” he said.
“Ah! And how much do you mean to speculate?”
“A sovereign, my lord.”
“Hand it over. I will lay you starting price.”
Somewhat taken aback, though nothing said or done by Viscount Medenham could really surprise him, Dale’s leather garments creaked and groaned while he produced the coin, which his master duly pocketed.