Kitabı oku: «Sir Hilton's Sin», sayfa 6

Chapter Eleven.
Busy Times at Tilborough

The Tilborough Arms had, from its position in the famous old racing town, always been a house to be desired by licenced victuallers, who mostly gain their living by supplying a very small amount of victuals, and drink out of all proportion, to guests; but in the hands of Sam – probably christened Samuel, but the complete name had long died out – Sam Simpkins, the inn had become an hotel of goodly proportions, where visitors could be provided with comfortable bedrooms off the gallery and snug breakfasts and dinners in suitable places, always supposing that they were on “the Turf.” For Sam Simpkins had prospered, not only with the old inn, but in other ways. He did a bit of farming, bred horses in the meadows where the thick, succulent waterside grasses grew, and always had a decent bit of blood on hand for sale, or to run in some one or another of the small races.

Sam was known, too, as a clever trainer, who had for a long time been in the service of that well-known sportsman, Sir Hilton Lisle. He had transferred his services when Sir Hilton went from the horses to the dogs, and did a good deal of training business for Lady Tilborough, till there was a bit of a tiff – something about money matters, it was said – when her ladyship and he parted company, but remained good friends. Then, to use his own expression, he went on his own hook, where he wriggled a great deal between the crooked and the square. But still he prospered, and grew what his friends called a thoroughly warm party.

The fact was that Sam was a regular gatherer-up of unconsidered trifles, not above taking a great deal of pains to make a pound, and he made it, too, wherever there was no chance of making a hundred or more.

He never lost a chance, though he lost his wife when his daughter was at a dangerous age. And when a well-known sporting member of the Orphoean Music-Hall – I beg its pardon, Temple of Music and the Arts – was staying at Tilborough so as to be present at the races, something was settled one evening over pipes and several glasses of brandy and water.

“Take my word for it, Sammy, old man – I ought to know – there’s money in her, and if you’ll let her come up to me and the missus we’ll put her through. She’s a little beauty.”

Miss Mary Ann Simpkins, only lately from a finishing school where young ladies were duly taught all accomplishments, was, in her finished state, newly at home, where she was promoted to attending upon, and attracting, the better-class customers in the old-fashioned bar-parlour, where she looked like a rose among the lemons, heard of the old professional friend’s proposal, declared that it was just what she would like, and soon after went to the professional and his missus.

There she studied, as it was termed; in other words, she went under professors of singing, dancing and dramatic action, who completely altered her style in a few months, so that she was soon able to make her début at the Orphoean, where, to use the theatrical term, she immediately “caught on,” and became a popular star, thoroughly proving that the P.F. was right as to there being money in her.

In fact, “all London,” of a class, flocked to see her and hear her, and she made so much money for the place of entertainment that its proprietary determined to rebuild, add, and decorate as richly as possible while “La Sylphide,” as she was called in the bills, was “resting”; in other words, playing the little hostess of the Tilborough Arms, attracting customers and bringing more money into her father’s till. People of all degrees were attracted like moths to flutter round the brilliant little star. All made love, and the most unlikely of all who seized the opportunity of being served by the clever little maiden was believed in and won.

On that busy special day, when the town was crowded and the Tilborough Arms was at its busiest, Sam Simpkins, a heavy, red-faced, bullet-headed, burly, rather brutal-looking personage, a cross between a butcher and prize-fighter, with a rustic, shrewd, farmer-like look thrown in, sat in one of the seats in his fox head, brush, and sporting-print adorned hall, cross-legged so as to make a desk of his right knee, upon which he held a big betting-book, wherein, after a good deal of chewing of the end of a lead-pencil, he kept on making entries, giving some order between the efforts of writing by shouting into the bar-parlour, the kitchen, or through a speaking-tube connected with extensive stables.

It was an attractive-looking, old-fashioned place, that great hall, with its flight of stairs leading up into a gallery showing many chamber-doors, its glazed-in bar-parlour, and its open windows looking out on to the common and racecourse, quite alive on that bright summer’s morning with all the tag-rag and bob-tail of a race day, as well as with the many lovers of the race from town and country who had come to enjoy the sport.

“Here, ’Lizbeth,” shouted the landlord, reaching back so as to send his hoarse voice well into the bar-parlour, “ain’t yer young missus come back yet?”

“Yes, sir, and gone up to dress,” came back.

“Humph! Time she had,” growled the man, wetting the lead of his pencil. “I dunno what she wanted to go out biking for on a morning like this. I’d ha’ biked her, if I’d seen her going.”

There was an interval of writing. Then more grumbling —

“Might have attended to the business a bit as she is at home, and me up to my eyes in work. Humph! That’s right.”

Another entry was made.

“Blest if I can recklect so well as I used. Blow bikes! Why, they’ll be wanting to run races with ’em next, and – Mornin’, doctor; ain’t seen yer for months.”

“Morning, Sam. No; I’ve been away with my regiment. Here, someone, S. and B.”

This to the attendants in the bar, where he stopped for a few minutes discussing the cooling drink, while behind the landlord’s back he made a few quick entries in his book with a metallic pencil.

“Dear old Hilt,” he said to himself. “I was just in time. Got on for him, so that he ought to be pretty warm by to-night. How’s the little star, Sam?” he cried, turning back.

“Oh, she’s all right, sir, thank ye.”

“You ought to be proud of her. She has taken all London by storm.”

“So I hear, sir. I am proud on her, for she’s as good as she is high.”

“That I’m sure she is, Sam; bright, clever, witty, and not a bit of harm in her, I’ll swear.”

“Right you are, sir. Sleep here to-night, sir?”

“Of course. I wired down.”

“I didn’t know, sir. Then, of course, it’s booked. Dine too, sir?”

“Can’t say, Sam. I hope I shall be engaged. If I’m not I shall throw myself on Miss Simpkins’s mercy.”

“You’ll be all right, sir. I’ve laid in plenty o’ grub.”

The doctor nodded, and as the landlord went on studying his betting-book he unstrapped and took out his race-glass, wiped the lenses thoughtfully, took a look through, after careful focussing, and put it back in the case.

“Bless her!” he said to himself. “She’s the dearest little witch that ever breathed. She ought to have been here by now. They haven’t seen her at the paddock, and I can’t get a peep at La Sylphide. I believe they haven’t brought her up yet. Well, no wonder, considering her temper. Josh Rowle knows what he’s about.”

He took out his glass again, focussed it, and had a good look through it at the common, alive with horse, foot and artillery, in the shape of carriages laden with ammunition, loaded bottles ready to go off included.

“Does she do it to lead me on?” thought the doctor. “I wish I wasn’t such a coward. But, there, if the Sylph wins I shall feel independent, and can go at her without thinking I’m a money-hunter. Then, if shell ask me to dinner, which I think she will, the wine will be in and the wit may be out, but I’ll pop as well as her champagne, and know the worst. By Jove!”

He closed his glass suddenly, for, brightly and fashionably dressed, Lady Tilborough passed close to the window and stopped his view of the common. The next minute she was entering the hall.

Chapter Twelve.
The Floating Cloud

“Oh, there you are, Simpkins! You must make room for my carriage. Order them to give my coachman a separate stable. Lock up. Ah, Dr Granton, I thought you’d come and see my mare win.”

“I came down on purpose to see you, Lady Tilborough,” was the reply, given with a warm pressure of the hand. “But, of course, I am longing to see your mare carry all before her.”

“Thanks, doctor, thanks,” said the lady, with a meaning smile which made the doctor thrill. “Yes, I mean to win. There are some nice people staying at the Court. I’ll introduce you on the stand, if I have time. But you’ll come over afterwards and dine?”

“Oh, thank you, yes,” cried the doctor, flushing with pleasure. “So good of you. Can I do anything? Let me see that your horses are properly put up.”

“Oh, no, no, no, the coachman will see to that, I could not think of troubling you.”

“Trouble?” said the doctor, with what was intended for an intense gaze full of meaning. “Don’t talk of trouble, Lady Tilborough, when you know.”

“Yes, I know that I am full of anxiety about my mare, and in no humour for listening to nonsense, so hold your tongue. Oh, here’s that dreadful man again.”

For the visitor to the Denes of that morning, minus his little white mongrel, but flourishing his pack of race-cards, suddenly appeared at the window with: “Success to your ladyship, and may yer win every race! You’ll buy a few c’rect cards of Dandy Dinny, the only original purveyor of – ”

“Get out, you scoundrel!” cried the doctor, fiercely.

“Cert’ny, my noble doctor; but you’ll buy a c’rect card of – ”

He did not finish, for the doctor threw a coin quickly out of the window, and the wretched-looking lout rushed to field it, before he was outpaced.

“Poor wretch!” said Lady Tilborough. “But that was very nice of you. But there, don’t follow me – now.”

She walked off quickly, and the doctor drew a quick breath.

“Bless her! She never spoke to me like that before.”

He turned, full of elation, to find the landlord, with his pencil between his lips, watching him keenly.

“I shan’t dine here, Simpkins,” he said.

“Very good, sir. So I heered.”

“Splendid day for the race.”

“Yes, sir, and the ground’s lovely. Made good book, sir?”

“Oh, yes, capital.”

“Glad to see her ladyship bears it so well.”

“Bears it? Oh, she never gives way to excitement. She’d be cool, even if she felt she would lose.”

“Oh, yes, sir; I know well enough what spirit she has.”

“Rather a big field, though, Sam.”

“Yes, sir; but there’s only one as can stay.”

“Exactly. La Sylphide, of course. By George! I’ll take the liberty of making her namesake a present.”

“Very good of you, sir, but she’s out of it.”

“What?”

“Jim Crow’s the horse, sir. First favourite now.”

“Bah!” cried the doctor.

“What! Ain’t you heard, sir?”

“Heard! Heard what?”

“Lady Tilborough’s mare won’t run.”

“You don’t mean it?” cried the doctor, turning pale.

“Fact, sir. I never plays tricks with gents I knows. Honesty’s the best policy, sir; and you know as you can trust Sam Simpkins.”

“But – but – Good heavens! What does it mean? Lady Tilborough never said a word. Then that’s why I couldn’t see any sign of her people down by the paddock.”

“That’s it, sir.”

“But why? What’s the reason?”

“No jock, sir. Ladyship’s man’s down – acciden’, killed, or ill, or some’at. Anyhow, he can’t ride the mare, and as you well know, nobody else can.”

“Oh!” groaned the doctor.

“Why, you hain’t put anything on her, have you, sir?”

“I have, Sam, heavily, and for a friend as well.”

“Then you’re in the wrong box, sir, and no mistake. That comes o’ gents going on their own hook instead o’ taking a honest agent’s advice.”

“Give me yours now, then, Sam, and I shall be for ever grateful.”

“Anything to oblige an old patron, sir. – All right, I’m a-coming,” cried the trainer, in answer to a call from one of the servants, who came out of a side door. “What is it?”

“Wanted by one of the men from the stables.”

“All right. Here, you look out and hedge all you can, sir. Jim Crow’s your game.”

“The dark horse,” groaned the doctor, wildly; “he must be black. Ah, poor darling, there she is!”

For Lady Tilborough came back, in her quick, eager way. “Ah, doctor, still here?” she cried. “Where’s that scoundrel Simpkins? Hallo! What’s the matter? Bad news?”

“Yes, horrible, I didn’t know. It’s ruin for me; but I don’t care; I’m in agony about you and the losses it means to you.”

“What!” cried the lady, turning pale. “Is there another crux?”

“Yes,” cried the doctor, catching her hands, and the genuine tears stood in his eyes.

“Don’t shilly-shally, man,” she cried angrily. “Out with it, and get it over.”

“La Sylphide!”

“What about her? Some accident?”

“Yes. I’d have given anything not to be the bearer of such hideous news.”

“Let me have it at once, and I’ll bear it like a woman, doctor. I’m not one of your hysterical sort.”

“No; the bravest lady I ever met.”

“Then let me have it. What has the mare done?”

“Thrown your jockey or something. He’s half-killed, I believe.”

“Oh, bosh! Stale news. You mean Josh Rowle?”

“Yes. How can you bear it like that?”

“Bear it?” cried the lady. “You should have seen me a couple of hours ago. Mad, doctor, mad.”

“While now – ”

“Merry as a lark, man; I’ve got another rider.”

“You have? Oh, thank goodness! Thank goodness! Don’t take any notice of me, Lady Tilborough. I was quite knocked over.”

“On account of my losing?”

“Well, yes. I was heavily on too, for myself and poor Hilt Lisle.”

“Oh, you did the business for him then? I knew he was in to the tune of four thou’.”

“But your man, Lady Tilborough? Can you trust him to ride the mare?”

“Trust him! Why, it’s Hilt himself.”

“What! Hilt going to ride the mare?”

“Yes, my dear boy; and he’ll save the race.”

“Lady Tilborough, you’ve made me a happy man,” cried the doctor.

“Have I?” she said drily, and with a merry look in her eye. “Well, be happy, for I don’t think you’ll lose, Granton,” she said softly. “I can read men pretty well. Long experience. That was real. You were cut up at the thought of my losing.”

“Cut up?” he cried earnestly and naturally. “It made me forget poor Hilt and myself.”

“Thank you, dear boy,” she said quietly. “I never thought you so true a friend before.”

She glanced at her watch.

“Time’s on the wing,” she said. “Hilt Lisle ought to be here by now; he was to meet me at the hotel, but I must have a look at the mare.”

“May I go with you?”

“If you wish to,” was the reply, and joy began a triumphant dance in the young doctor’s brain, for there was a something in the way in which those words were uttered. None of the light badinage, laughter and repartee, for Lady Tilborough seemed to have suddenly turned thoughtful and subdued, as she passed out, unconscious of the fact that the trainer had entered the hall and was watching her keenly.

“Beg pardon, sir,” he said, following up Granton.

“Oh, bother! Well, what is it?”

“Sorry to see her ladyship so down in the mouth now. You should put her up to a bit of hedging on Jim Crow.”

Granton gave him a peculiar look, full of perfect content, and laughed aloud.

“Moonshine!” he cried, and dashed after the sporting countess.

Chapter Thirteen.
“My Daughter and my Son-in-Law.”

“Moonshine!” said the trainer, with a puzzled look after the departing doctor. “Laughing like an idiot. Rum how it takes different people. Here’s my stepping lady looking as if she meant to take pyson in her five o’clock tea, the doctor regularly off his chump, and I dessay someone’ll go home by train to-night, load a revolver, and – click! All over. Well, they shouldn’t meddle with what they don’t understand. Reg’lar gambling, and they deserve all they get. Hullo! You here again?”

This to the pink-coated tout, who came smiling and cringing up to the door.

“Brought yer a tip. Something good, Mr Simpkins, sir.”

“Yah! Rubbish! My book’s chock.”

“But it’s the tippiest tip, sir, as ever was,” whispered the man from behind his hand. “Worth a Jew’s eye.”

“I’m fly, Dinny,” said the trainer, with a wink. “Tell it to some one else. I don’t trade to-day.”

“You’ll repent it, Mr Sam, sir,” whispered the man, earnestly, and with many nods and jerks of the head, as he kept looking about furtively to see that they were not overheard.

“Of course. All right,” said the trainer, contemptuously. “Down on your luck, eh, Dinny?”

“Terrible, sir.”

“Want a drink?”

The man smiled, and drew the back of a dirty hand across his cracked and fevered lips.

“Go round to the tap and say I sent you. Here, twist those cards round.”

The man obeyed promptly, and after placing the point of his black lead-pencil to his lips the trainer scrawled laboriously: “One drink. – S.S.”

“Used to be private bar – once,” muttered the man, with an eager, thirsty look in his bleared and bloodshot eyes.

“Thank ye, Mr Sam, sir, and good luck to yer. My word, what a beauty she have growed, sir! Lady T.’s nothing to her.”

“Right you are, Dinny,” said the trainer, smiling proudly, as his child came tripping down the staircase as light, flowery, and iridescent in colours as a clever, fashionable modiste and milliner could make her, regardless of expense, after being ordered to produce something “spiff” for the races. “She’ll take the shine out of some of ’em.”

“Shine, sir!” cried the tout, in his genuine admiration of the pretty, rosy-faced, rustic little beauty. “Why, she’ll put ’em out like a silver ’stinguisher. Thank ye, Mr Sam, sir,” he continued, as in his satisfaction at the praise and the pleasure felt over an anticipated grand coup, the trainer’s heart opened, and he slipped a florin into the tout’s hand. “You wouldn’t buy my tip, sir, but I’ll give it to the little gal I’ve knowed since she was as high as one of your quart pots. Good luck to you, my beauty! You lay gloves or guineas on your pretty namesake – La Sylphide’s the winner. You’re clippers, both on you, that you are. Tlat!”

The last was a smack of the lips as the tout went from the door on his way to the tap, and in anticipation of the draught that would cool his parching throat.

“Nasty old man!” cried the little bouquet of a body, exhaling scent all round, as she tripped to the trainer’s side, raised herself on tiptoe, with her delicate, rose-coloured gloves on his shoulders, and gave him a couple of rapid kisses. “There, dad, shall I do?”

“Oh, yes, you’ll do,” said the trainer, grimly; “but don’t you get putting anything on La Sylphide.”

“Not going to, daddy,” said the girl, merrily, and making three or four breakdown steps she brought a little foot down on the floor with a light pat. “I’ve put all on her that she’s going to win to-day. Now, say I look fit as a fairy.”

“Out and out. There’ll be nothing to-day as can touch yer. But – ”

“Ah, you mustn’t – you shan’t!” cried the charming little thing, dashing at her father as he uttered that but in a growl. “We’ve had it out together, and made it up, and kissed, and you shan’t scold me any more.”

“I dunno ’bout that,” said the trainer, walking round his daughter admiringly, while she mockingly and mincingly drew herself up to be inspected, looking as if she were on a London stage, the focus of every eye in an applauding house.

“Ah, it’s all very well for you to come kittening round me, my gal, but it warn’t square, after what I’ve done, for you to go courting and marrying on the sly.”

“But I had hundreds of offers and heaps of presents from all over London, dad, and I wouldn’t take one of them – the offers, I mean.”

“Of course; but you took the presents – ”

The girl nodded and winked merrily.

“You didn’t send them back?”

“Likely!” said the girl. “But lots of ’em were stupid bunches of flowers, bouquets – buckets – and they were all squirmy next day.”

“But to go and get married to a little bit of a boy like that!”

“But I was obliged to marry somebody, daddy,” cried the girl, petulantly. “And you saw how he used to admire me and be always coming.”

“Of course, my gal, but I didn’t think it meant any more than lots more did.”

“But we just matched so nicely, daddy.”

“Humph!” in a regular bearish grunt.

“And we did love one another so.”

“Yah! Sweetstuff! Well, it’s done, and it can’t be undone.”

“No, dad. I don’t want it to be, and you won’t when you get used to Syd. Now you’re going to be a good loving old boy and say no more about it.”

“I dunno so much about that.”

“You’d better, dad.”

“Oh, had I?”

“Yes; if you don’t kiss me again and be friends I’ll cry, and spoil everything I’ve got on, and won’t go to the races.”

“You’d better!”

“I will,” cried the girl, with her eyes flashing, and her little cupid-bow-like mouth compressed in a look of determination. “No, I won’t. I’ll go into hysterics, and scream the house down. I’ll make such a scene!”

“You be quiet, you saucy hussy. There, it’s the races, and I’ve got a lot of business to see to. But, look here, your place is along with your husband.”

“Well, that’s where I’m going to be,” said the girl, with a merry look. “I went over on my bike this morning and saw him.”

“Oh, that’s where you were off to?”

“Yes, and Syd’s promised to be a good boy, and come over to see you to-day and have it out.”

“Oh, is he? Well, that’s right, but I don’t want him to-day. I’m too busy. Look ye here, though, my gal, I mean to see that you have your rights. You just wait till I get my young gentleman under my thumb. I’ll give him the thumbscrew, and – ”

“Here he is!” cried the girl, joyfully; and with a frisk like a lamb in a May-field she danced to the boy, who hurried in breathlessly. “Oh, Syd, Syd, Syd!”

The beauty of the dress was forgotten, as a pair of prettily plump arms were thrown round the young husband’s neck, while, ignoring the big, ugly, scowling parent, the new arrival did his part in a very loving hug and an interchange of very warm, honey-moony kisses.

The recipients were brought to their senses by a growl. “Well, that’s a pretty performance in public, young people.”

“Public!” cried the girl. “Pooh! Only you, daddy, and you don’t count.”

“Public-house,” said Syd. “How d’ye do, Mr Simpkins?”

“Never you mind how I do, nor how I don’t, young gentleman. You and me’s got to have a few words of a sort.”

“All right, Mr Simpkins,” cried Syd, cheerfully, as he drew back to the full extent of his and his young wife’s joined hands to inspect her in front, and, with the girl’s aid, behind. “Lovely!” he whispered, and the girl flushed with delight, as she kept on tripping, posturing, and dancing, as if trying to draw her husband on into a pas de deux, or a pas de fascination in a ballet, he being apparently quite willing to join in and finish off with another embrace.

“Drop it, Molly,” cried the old man. “Now, sir, what have you got to say for yourself?”

“Nothing!” cried Syd, without turning his head; but he did the next moment. “I say, Sam, don’t she look lovely?”

“Sam, eh? Well, you’re a cool ’un, ’pon my soul!”

“Oh, daddy, don’t!” cried the girl, pettishly.

“But I shall. Here, he marries you without coming to me first with ‘by your leave’ or ‘with your leave.’”

“But hasn’t he come now, daddy? You always used to say you wished you’d got a boy, and now you’ve got one – a beauty. Ain’t you, Syd?”

“Stunner.”

“Will you hold your tongue, Molly! You’ve got a worse clack than your mother had.”

“Then do come and do the proper. You kneel down, Syd, and I’ll lean on your shoulder. I ain’t going to spoil my dress for nobody, not even a cross old dad. That’s right. Down on your knees, Syd.”

“Shan’t. I want to put my arm round you.”

“Very well; that’ll do. Now then, come on, daddy, and say: ‘Bless you, my children!’ Curtain.”

“What? What d’yer mean by ‘curtain?’ You hold your tongue, miss. Now, Mr Sydney Smithers. Smithers! There’s a name for a respectable girl to want to take!”

“Well, hang it!” cried the boy, “it’s better than Simpkins.”

“Not it,” growled the owner of the latter; but he scratched his head, as if in doubt. “Be quiet, Molly. Now, Mr Smithers, I mean my gal to have her rights.”

“Yes, Mr Simpkins.”

“Get it over, Syd.”

“Yes, sir; I quite agree with you.”

“That’s right, then, so far; but what I say is that you ought to have come straight to me, as her father, and ‘Mr Simpkins,’ says you, ‘I’ve took a great fancy to your filly’ – daughter, I mean – ‘and I’m going to make proposals for her ’and,’ you says.”

“Yes, Mr Simpkins; I’m very much attached to your daughter and I’ve married her.”

“No, you didn’t, young gentleman,” cried the old man, irascibly. “That’s just what you ought to have done.”

“Yes, exactly, Mr Simpkins; but, I say, what are you doing to-day about the big race?”

“Never you mind about no big race, young fellow. I want to know what you’re going to do about the human race. You’ve married my gal candlestine, as they call it, and I want to know about settlements. You don’t expect I’m going to keep you and your wife and family?”

“Well, he won’t let me,” said Syd, in response to a whisper.

“Of course he won’t,” said the trainer. “Not likely. You’re a gentleman, I suppose. You won’t want to do nothing for your living.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Syd.

“Well, that means you will. That sounds better. But you won’t want to come and live here and help serve behind my bar?”

“No, I’m blest if I do!”

“Oh, dad, drop it,” cried the girl.

“No, nor I shan’t drop it, miss, till I’ve seen about your rights. Suppose you mean him to come to London and begin figgering on the stage along with you?”

“I don’t, dad.”

“Well, I’m glad you’ve got so much sense in your head, my gal, for, you mark my words, he’s the wrong sort. Too short and fat.”

“Dad!”

“Well, so he is, my gal. I dunno what you sees in him.”

“Oh!” ejaculated the girl, and she turned her back, snatched Syd’s tie undone, and began to retie it, as she whispered; “Oh, do finish it all, Syd. I want to get good places on the stand.”

“Perhaps,” continued the trainer, “I might make you of some use among the ’osses after a bit. But you’d have to train, and get rid of a stone of that fat.”

“Fat!” cried Syd, indignantly.

“Oh, dad, what a shame!” cried the young wife, with tears in her eyes. “Never mind what he says, Syd. You’re not fat.”

“Yes, he is, miss; too fat for a light-weight. But I don’t want him to be always quarrelling with. Put it the other way, then. What’s your people going to do for you?”

“Don’t know,” said the boy, taking out his cigarette-case.

“No, o’ course you don’t; that’s what I’m a-saying. You don’t. But I do. That’s where it is. There, don’t get smoking them nasty, rubbishing things in my ’all and making it not fit for a gent as knows what’s what to come in. Smoke one of them.”

The trainer drew a handful of big dark cigars with gold bands from his breast-pocket, and held them out for the lad to take one, which he did readily.

“Thank ye. Partagas, sir?”

“Oh, you do know something, then?” growled the trainer, biting off the end and proceeding to strike a match, which he held ready, so that he and his son-in-law could join ends, and draw in a friendly way, much to the satisfaction of the young lady, who smiled to herself and said —

“They’re coming round.”

“Suppose we shake hands now, Mr Simpkins, and say done,” cried Syd, blowing a big cloud in his father-in-law’s face.

“Don’t you be in a hurry, young fellow. As I was a-saying, about your people. Do you think my lady, your aunt, will find you in money to keep house for a trainer’s daughter?”

“N-n-no,” said Syd, sadly.

“No, it is, young man. If you’d wanted to be secketary to a society for the propergation o’ something or another, she’d be all there with a big subscription; but she won’t give yer tuppence now.”

“No, but uncle will,” cried Syd, eagerly. “He’s the right sort.”

“Him? Tchah! Why, my lady won’t let him have enough to pay his own tailor’s bills. I know all about that. What about the old man?”

“Grandfather?”

“Yes. S’pose you took Molly down promiscus like, and showed him her paces; he might take a fancy to her, eh?”

“Yes,” cried Molly. “Capital, father! Syd will take me down to see his grandfather. Won’t you, Syd?”

“Take you anywhere, darling; only not to-day.”

“Who said to-day, little stupid? There, now, it’s all right, ain’t it, dad?”

“Don’t you be in such a flurry, my gal; ’tain’t whipping and spurring like mad as gets you first past the post. Steady does it. Now, young gentleman, look here.”

“Oh, dear me, dad, how you do like to talk!” cried the girl, pettishly.

“Do you hear me, sir? Leave the girl alone. You don’t want everyone to know you’re just married – hugging her that how.”

“Yes, I do, all the world and everybody,” cried Syd. “We’re married, but we’re awfully in love with each other still – aren’t we, darling?”

“Awfully, Syd,” cried Molly, hanging to him.

“Well, I s’pose that’s all right,” grumbled the trainer, “and of course what’s done, as I said afore, can’t be undone. But, look here; I mean my gal to have her rights.”

“Of course, sir.”

“And I understand you mean to do the proper thing by her?”

“Yes, dad. To be sure he does, and you’re going to be ever so proud of Syd – proud as I am.”

“Well, I don’t quite know that, but I’ve got something else to think about now, and so, after what you’ve said square and ’andsome, young gen’leman, here’s my ’art and here’s my ’and.”

The trainer illustrated his last words by putting his left hand upon his chest, too low down to satisfy an anatomist, and holding out his right.

“There,” he continued, after the business of shaking hands had been gone through, “all this talking has made me husky, so we’ll have a glass of fizz, son-in-law, in honour of the occasion, just to wash it down.”

“No, no, no, no!” cried the girl. “Syd and I want to get out on the common to see all the races.”

“Bah! You two won’t be thinking about the races, I know. Look here, though, son-in-law. Some day, I’ll give you the right tip;” and then, in a whisper from behind his hand, “Jim Crow – the dark horse.”

“What for?”

“What for?” cried the trainer, contemptuously. “Why, the cup.”

“Nonsense?”

“That’s right, boy.”

“No, no,” cried Syd, giving his young wife’s arm a hug. “La Sylphide.”

“Out of it. Jock in a straight weskit.”