As I strolled down somewhat early, charged with the pleasing commission of “bagging nine seats in the middle of the front row of the stand and seeing no one collared them,” I met Redwood, fresh as a daisy, just returning from a final inspection of the ground.
“Hullo, youngster, you’re not running, I hear. What a pity!”
“It doesn’t matter,” said I. “Do you mind my not backing you for the Mile?”
He laughed, and said he should have thought poorly of me if I had not backed my own man.
“Is his hand all right now?” he asked.
“He says so,” said I. “It’s worth six yards to you, though.”
“You think so, do you?” said he. “By the way, will you do a job for me? My two young sisters awfully want to be on the ground, and they’ve got leave if some one will look after them. I can’t. How would you like to?”
Here was a thunderbolt! I had a fair day’s work mapped out for myself as it was. Now I was to be saddled with a pair of teasing young female fidgets, and held responsible for their good behaviour and general comfort! What did people take me for? Why, the Mile itself wouldn’t take it out of me half as much.
“All right,” said I, “where are they?”
“I’m going home; I’ll send them down sharp before the crowd comes. Thanks awfully, youngster.”