Kitabı oku: «Sir Hilton's Sin», sayfa 7
“Out of it be hanged, sir! She runs to win, with Uncle Hilton up.”
“Come along, Syd,” cried Molly, and the pair ran out like a couple of schoolchildren, nearly cannoning against Mark Willows, who was coming up with Sir Hilton’s bag and overcoat, and making him turn to look after them, while Sam Simpkins stood gasping like a great, red-faced carp which had leaped out of the edge of a pond and landed in an element not suited to its nature.
Chapter Fourteen.
The Trainer’s Tips
“Nonsense!” gasped the trainer, as soon as he could get his breath after the staggerer he had received. “The boy’s in love – mad – don’t know what he’s a-saying of.”
“Well, I’m blest!” said Mark, turning round with a grin on his face. “He’s begun to crow early. Day, Mr Simpkins. I say – ”
Mark did not say anything, but winked and jerked his thumb over his right shoulder in the direction the young couple had taken.
“What do you want?” growled the trainer, surlily.
“Room for the guv’nor – Sir Hilton Lisle, Bart – to dress for the race.”
“Then it is true,” said the trainer to himself, as to hide his face from the groom he turned his back, walked to a bell-handle, and pulled it violently before returning.
“Got a lot on our mare, eh, Mr Simpkins?”
“No!” growled the trainer. “I heered she was not going to run.”
“Knowing ones ain’t always right, sir.”
At that moment the chambermaid appeared.
“Room for Sir Hilton Lisle,” cried the trainer, hoarsely. “Put him in number one. Well, this is a facer!” he muttered, as he turned away. “I must have a drop for this,” and he hurried into the bar.
“Hullo, my dear,” cried Mark. “My word, what a cap! I say, what’s the matter with the boss?”
“He’s got a sore head,” said the chambermaid, sharply. “I never see such a bear.”
“He’s been backing the wrong horse, I know,” said Mark.
“Then you don’t know nothing about it, Mr Clever. Here, I’ve got one for you.”
The speaker led the way up the stairs into the open gallery, to pause at the top by the door of the room her master had named, Mark following with the bag and overcoat.
“Well, let’s have it,” said Mark.
“Why, I should ha’ thought you must ha’ known.”
“Known what – as my guv’nor’s going on the Turf again?”
“Bother the Turf! I’m sick of the name. No; master’s found out about Miss Molly.”
“Eh? What about her?”
“Married! How do you like that?”
“Never tried yet, my dear. But who to?”
“Who to, indeed! A chit of a boy.”
“Wha-a-at!” cried Mark, and a light broke upon him as he recalled what he had just seen. “Not our Master Syd?”
“Right first time.”
“Oh, here’s a game,” began Mark. “Quick, here’s master, and I haven’t put out his duds.”
The groom dashed through the door the girl threw open just as Sir Hilton, who had been to the paddock, came up to the porch ready to meet the trainer, who was coming from the bar wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
“It’s all up!” he groaned to himself.
“Ah, Sam Simpkins, how are you? Surprised to see me here again, eh?”
“Sur-prised ain’t the word for it, Sir Hilton,” cried the trainer, making an effort to look landlordly, and speaking in boisterous tones. “Staggered, Sir Hilton. That’s nearer the mark; but come in, Sir Hilton. Puts me in mind o’ the good old days. My word! Who’d ha’ thought it? I jest heered of it. And you’re going to ride, Sir Hilton?”
“I am, Sam.”
“Your old mare, Sir Hilton?”
“No,” said Sir Hilton, frowning. “My old friend Lady Tilborough’s mare, in consequence of – ”
“Yes, I heered, Sir Hilton; her jockey, Josh Rowle’s been on the drink again. Dear, dear! I keep a house, but what I say to people who come to my bar or to the tap is – ”
“Yes – yes, I know. My man here?”
“Yes, Sir Hilton. Up in your old room, number one. But, ahem! Beg pardon, Sir Hilton, you can trust me,” said the trainer, dropping his voice. “Do you, eh – understand me, Sir Hilton – man who’s seen a deal o’ business for you – you – you don’t ride to win?”
“Why, you – ”
“Ah, Hilt, dear boy!” cried Lady Tilborough, hurrying in. “I saw you come up to the porch, but couldn’t overtake you. Man of your word.”
“I hope so,” said Sir Hilton, turning to give the old trainer a withering look.
“Oh, murder!” muttered the man, wiping his brow, now all covered with a heavy dew. “What shall I do? It’s a smasher.”
“Seen our beauty?” said Lady Tilborough.
“Yes; I’ve been to look. She’s in splendid form.”
“Thank you, old man; that does me good.”
“A bit too fine, though,” continued Sir Hilton, who had been watching the trainer narrowly, and seeing his state and guessing the cause, felt a little compassionate. “What do you say, Sam?”
“Well, Sir Hilton, if you ask me, I say I haven’t had her training lately, but I’ll give you, an old patron, my honest opinion – not a bit, sir – and if you’ll take my advice you’ll play a quiet game with the mare. That’s the winning card.”
“Nonsense!” cried Sir Hilton, contemptuously.
“Just listen to him, my lady. Here has he been out of the game all this time, while I’ve been watching La Sylphide’s work at every race. I asks you, my lady, Is there anyone as knows the mare’s action, temper and staying powers better than me?”
“He’s right there, Hilt,” said Lady Tilborough.
“To some extent, yes,” said the gentleman addressed.
“Thank ye, Sir Hilton. Then look here; nobody would like to see you come first past the post more than your old trainer.”
“Would you, Sam?” said Sir Hilton, with a queer look at the speaker.
“All right, Sir Hilton. I understand yer alloosion. I may’ve got a bit on Jim Crow, consequent upon the misfortune to Josh Rowle; but,” he continued, closing one eye meaningly, “I can put that right easy. You win the race, Sir Hilton, and I’ll make a pot of money by it. I know the ropes.”
“You do, Sam,” said the baronet, laughing.
“And I’m glad of the charnsh to do a good turn to a couple o’ noble patrons who have put many a hundred into my pocket. Look here, Sir Hilton, there’s plenty of time yet. I am at your service. Just you take me to the mare, and let me have a few minutes with her.”
“The mare is not my property, Sam,” said Sir Hilton, laughing.
“Of course not, Sir Hilton. I forgot. What do you say, my lady? That there Jim Crow’s a good horse, and La Sylphide hasn’t the wind she had.”
“Indeed!” said Lady Tilborough.
“It’s a fact, my lady. What she wants is holding in and a waiting game, and just something as – you know, Sir Hilton – for the roosh at the last, as’ll take her in a couple o’ lengths ahead.”
“Yes, I understand,” said Sir Hilton, drily.
“You hear, my lady? I want you to win.”
“Thank you, Simpkins,” said Lady Tilborough, gravely. “I am greatly obliged.”
“And I’m to just take the mare in hand for you,” said the man, who, in his excitement, could not restrain his eagerness.
“Well, no, thank you, Simpkins,” said the lady, quietly. “You were always a very good trainer, and I made a good deal of money in the past, but I have a very trustworthy man now, and he might object to your interference at the eleventh hour.”
“Oh, I could soon make it right with him, my lady,” said the trainer, quickly.
“No doubt, Sam Simpkins,” said the lady, meaningly, “but I should be sorry to have my man’s morals assailed.”
“I don’t understand you, my lady.”
“Then I’ll speak more plainly, Simpkins. I am not disposed to lay my man open to temptation.”
“What! Does your ladyship mean to insinuate that I’d do anything that warn’t quite square?”
“I insinuate nothing, Sam Simpkins. I only go so far as to say that you are not my servant now, and that I would not trust you in the least.”
“Hark at that now!” cried the trainer, turning up his eyes to the sporting trophies on the walls, and unconsciously letting them rest on the grinning mask of an old fox. Then “Ain’t you got a word to say for me, Sir Hilton? I has my faults, I know, but no man living would say I couldn’t be trusted. You allus found me right, Sir Hilton.”
“Always, Sam, when it suited your book.”
“Well, I am!” exclaimed the trainer.
“Yes, Sam, an awful old scamp,” said Lady Tilborough, laughing. “Thank you, my man. You’ve got your favourite, I’ve got mine, and the man to ride her straight and square as an English gentleman should ride an English horse.”
“All right, Sir Hilton. All right, my lady. Sorry I tried to give advice gratis for nothing; only mind this, both of you, if La Sylphide breaks down or Sir Hilton here loses his nerve through being out of training, don’t you blame me.”
“Don’t be alarmed, Simpkins,” said Lady Tilborough, in a tone which made the trainer draw back a step or two. “Here, Hilton.”
“Yes.”
“A horrible thought. What about your weight?” she whispered.
“Went straight to the scales and tried,” he replied, in the same lowered tone. “Right to an ounce.”
“Ha!” ejaculated Lady Tilborough, with a sigh of relief and a glance back to see if the trainer was out of hearing. “Now then, off to your room and get into your silk. Mind, you must keep cool and you must win.”
“I’m trying my best. But I can’t help thinking. My wife!”
“Oh! Kiss your wife, man – when you get back. Never mind her now.”
“But if by any chance she hears?”
“Let her hear when the race is run. She must hear afterwards, of course. Wives and husbands are out of court now. Remember your four thou’.”
“I do,” said Sir Hilton, with a groan.
“Ah! would you!” cried Lady Tilborough. “You’ve got to face the thing anyhow, and listen, here’s your position: It’s meeting the poor, severe darling with the race lost, or meeting her with it won. Which will you do?”
“Of course,” cried Sir Hilton, eagerly. “I see.”
“You’re yourself again. Now, one more word – that man has backed Jim Crow heavily. You understand?”
“Of course.”
“And Jim Crow’s rather a dangerous horse; but if you keep cool, and in your old form, the race is ours.”
“Yes; I feel it now.”
“Then you know. Keep her clear, and let her have her own old way.”
“Then I’m off yonder. You’ll meet me there. I’ve a hankering to be at her side, for fear of the possibility of anyone getting at her even now.”
“No fear of that. Off with you!”
Lady Tilborough held out her hand, and Granton entered quickly.
“Silk ho!” he cried.
Sir Hilton nodded shortly and ran actively up the stairs.
“Bravo!” said the doctor. “Hilt looks his old self. Cool as a – you know.”
“Don’t say another word to me, Granton, till the race is over,” said the lady, pleadingly.
“I understand,” he said, and they went off straight for the paddock, while as soon as the chamber door in the gallery had been shut sharply upon his master by Mark Willows, Simpkins slipped out of the bar entry, looking flushed and strange.
“Too late to do anything now,” he groaned to himself. “My head seems to be going – all of a buzz. Hedge heavily or chance it. Which? Which? Oh, what in the name of thunder shall I do?”
Chapter Fifteen.
Mephistopheles at Work
What the trainer did was to return to the bar and swallow a glass of gin and bitters hastily, before returning to his favourite seat in the hall, when he pulled out betting-book and pencil, threw one swollen leg over the other, and began to chew the lead and try to master the figures which would not stand still to be reckoned up.
“Nice day for the races,” said a voice, as the door was darkened. “How are you, Simpkins?”
The trainer looked up angrily, saw that it was an old client and friend, and replied surlily: “Morn’n. They’ll attend to you in the bar. Oh, dear!” he muttered, “I can’t hedge now.”
The visitor glanced quickly round to see that they were alone, and then pressed up close to the trainer. “Pst! Look here, Sam Simpkins.”
“Didn’t I tell you they’d see to you in the bar?” growled the trainer.
“Yes; but I want another fifty on Jim Crow, if you can do it.”
“Eh? Yes, of course,” cried the trainer, completely changing his tone and manner; then, turning over a few leaves, he clumsily made an entry in his book.
“Close on the run,” he said apologetically. – “Horrid busy. There you are. Ten fives. All right, Mr Trimmer.”
“Not in my way, as a rule, Mr Simpkins,” said Lady Lisle’s agent, with a weak grin; “but a little flutter, as you call it, is pleasant and exciting – a nice change from the humdrum of business life.”
“And very profitable too, eh, Mr Trimmer?”
“Yes; I’ve not done badly, Sam – thanks to you, old friend.”
“No, you haven’t; but go and get your glass and be off, please,” said the trainer, finishing the deposit of the crisp new banknotes by placing them in a pocket-book, drawing on the tight elastic with a loud snap, buttoning the book up in his breast, and giving the place a slap, which seemed to bring out a sigh of relief.
“I won’t drink this morning, thank you, Sam. I’ll go out on the common at once. How does Jim Crow look?”
“Splendid; but be off, please. I’m busy,” growled the trainer.
“I understand. I shall find you here after the race. Short settlements, eh?”
“Always on spot. Take and give sharp; that’s my motter,” replied the trainer, bending down over his betting-book again without paying further heed to his client, who nodded, smiled at the chamber maid in the gallery, and went out softly.
“A bit back,” muttered the trainer, with the ghost of a grin on his stubbly face, as soon as he was alone. “But like nothing – like nothing,” he grumbled. “One drop in a pint pot. But let’s see; let’s see.”
He had not been immersed in his calculations again five minutes when there was a hurried step, and Lady Lisle’s agent came in, looking ghastly.
“Oh, there you are, Sam,” he said, hurriedly. “I’ve been on the common and I’ve changed my mind.”
“Eh? What?” said the trainer, looking up fiercely.
“That fifty I put on Jim Crow. I’ll put on La Sylphide instead.”
“Too late, sir. Bet booked. I never alter my entries. What’s the matter?”
“I thought Jim Crow was such a perfectly safe horse, but I hear – ”
A gasp stopped the man’s utterance. “Well, what have you heered?”
“That – that Lady Tilborough’s horse is going to run after all.”
“Lady Tilborough’s mare’s scratched, they say, Mr Trimmer.”
“No, no. I have it on the best authority. She’s going to run.”
“Oh, they say anything in the ring. Don’t you take no notice. You’ve put your money on a good horse, and you’ve got to chance it, of course. I’ve a big pot on there.”
“So I hear, Mr Simpkins,” said the agent; “but I’m a poor man. I only bet on sure things, and I must withdraw this bet.”
“Too late, sir; can’t be done now.”
“But it must; it must I will have it back,” cried the agent, fiercely.
“Here, none of that,” said the trainer, with a savage growl. “You come to me, sir – made your bet, and I’ve booked it.”
“But I stand to lose five hundred pounds, man,” cried the agent, frantically. “Give me my money back.”
“Not a cent, sir. Chance it.”
“I heard that Josh Rowle was too bad to ride.”
“That’s true enough, sir.”
“I – I don’t understand,” cried Trimmer; “but I will not stir from here without those notes. Give me my fifty pounds.”
He caught the trainer with both hands by the coat. “Steady, my lad,” growled Simpkins. “Don’t be a fool. This is ’sault and battery, and, if I liked, I could lay you down with an ugly rap between the eyes. Steady!” he continued, with a grim smile overspreading his coarse and brutal face. “I begin to see now how it is. My, how queer! Your guv’nor must be going to ride.”
“What! Nonsense! Something to turn me off the scent. I will have my money back.”
“You won’t, Master Trimmer – not a cent; and look here, if you make that row you’ll have Sir Hilton out here to know what’s the matter.”
“Sir Hilton?” cried the man, staring wildly.
“Yes; he’s up there in number one, dressing for the race.”
“A lie! An excuse! Give me my money!” and he clutched at the trainer so fiercely that the bar and chamber maids came to the bar door to see.
“Ony a gent a bit upset about a bit o’ coin, my dears. Here, Mary, tell Mr Trimmer, here, who’s dressing in number one.”
“Sir Hilton Lisle, sir,” replied the maid, and Trimmer’s hands dropped from the trainer’s coat. “Anyone with him, my gal?”
“Yes, sir. Mark Willows, Sir Hilton’s groom.”
The agent dropped into a chair, looking as if he were going to have a fit.
“Gent’s a bit poorly. Excitement. That’ll do, my gals. Stop, one of you bring him a nip of my gin and bitters.”
The two maids, well accustomed to such scenes, retired into the bar, one of them returning with a glass upon a tray, and waiting to be paid, as Trimmer seized the liquor and gulped it down.
“All right, my dear; my treat,” said the trainer, and the next minute the two men were alone.
“Then it’s true?” faltered the agent, as he set down the glass.
“Yes, all true. Your guv’nor’s going to ride La Sylphide, and a hundred to one he wins.”
“And you never told me, an old friend,” said Trimmer, reproachfully.
“No friendship in betting, sir. I stand to lose a pile over the job, and I must make a bit back. Did I ask you to put your money on Jim Crow?”
“No – but – ”
“No, but!” said the trainer, scornfully. “Take it as I do. You don’t hear me ’owl.”
Trimmer, who was as white as a sheet, sat panting, as he stared hard at the trainer, and then glanced up over his shoulder at the gallery.
“C’rect card, gentlemen – all the runners, sir,” came from the outside to break the silence, backed up by the murmur from the course.
“Sam,” whispered the agent at last, and he leant towards the trainer, “do you really stand to lose five thou’?”
“Every penny of it,” growled the trainer, with a terrible oath, and a look which bespoke his sincerity. “What’s your twopenny bet to that? This is your somethinged guvnor’s doing. Confound him! I’d poison him if I could.”
“Ha!” sighed Trimmer.
“It was a dead certainty, as you know. They would have scratched La Sylphide at the last moment, for no one could ride her but Josh Rowle, and he’s in a strait weskit, with two nurses from the ’sylum. Dead certainty it was, when in comes your guv’nor to spoil as fine a thing as was ever planned.”
“But he mayn’t win, after all.”
“Tchah! I know the mare, don’t I? All he’s got to do is to sit still in the saddle, give her her head, and talk to her as he always knew how, and she’ll romp in past the lot. The game’s up, Mr Trimmer, and you must make the best of it. Here, don’t bear no malice. Have another drink, and take one of these.”
“C’rect card, gents; all the runners!” came again from the outside.
Simpkins’s outer breast-pocket formed his cigar-case, and he took out a couple from where they lay loose, and offered them to the agent. But the latter paid no heed, for he glanced up at the gallery and then at the bar, beyond which the two maids could be seen, busy serving.
“Sam,” whispered Trimmer at last; “quick, before it’s too late. The mare must be got at.”
Crack! went a match, and the trainer bit off the cigar end and lit up quickly.
“Here, ketch hold,” he growled. “Be sharp, or it’ll be out,” and he offered the burning match. “You talk like a fool. How?”
“You know. Such a little thing would do it. What about King Dick?”
“Hold your cursed row,” growled the trainer, threateningly.
“I can’t,” whispered the agent. “I’ve too much at stake. Get to the mare at once. You, a trainer, can manage that.”
“You talk like a fool, I tell you. Close upon the time like this.”
“Can’t you work it with the guv’nor or Lady T.?”
“No. If I could should I be sitting here jawing? Tried it on, and failed.”
“Think of your five thousand pounds.”
“I tell you you can’t get at the mare.”
“C’rect cards, gents,” came again from without, in Dandy Dinny’s raucous voice. But his cry was unheard within, where Trimmer, with a peculiar Mephistophelian smile upon his face, gave another glance upwards at the gallery, before leaning forward till his lips were quite close to the trainer’s great red ear, into which he whispered —
“No, of course not; but you could get at the man.”
The trainer started to his feet, the cigar he had just lit falling from his gaping mouth, just as Dandy Dinny passed the window, leering in, and then hurried out of sight with his hawking cry, for there was the sound of carriage wheels approaching the hotel.
Trimmer rose too, and laid his hand softly upon Simpkinss arm, as he gazed hard in his companion’s rolling eyes, now directed towards the gallery.
“Eh?” said the trainer at last, as his eyes dropped to gaze in those that were searching his, and he began to pass his big hand over his mouth again and again.
Then he lowered it, still gazing hard at the agent, and lifted it once more to his lips, but now closed as if it were holding a drinking vessel, which he made believe to hold to his lips and drink therefrom.
The look had now become questioning.
A slowly given nod from Trimmer’s head was the answer.
The big door-bell was pulled sharply, and gave forth a peal which made the trainer start. “Someone coming,” he said, rushing to the window and thrusting out his head, to draw it back sharply.
“The missus!” he whispered.
“Lady Lisle!” gasped Trimmer, excitedly. “She mustn’t see me here.”
“Come in my office. Quick!”
Simpkins half-thrust his companion quickly through the door in the corner, just as the boots passed through the porch and the barmaid came to her door, and the next minute Lady Lisle was ushered by the boots into the hall.
“I’ll tell master, my lady,” said the man, and he went to the office, while the barmaid drew back into her highly-glazed shell.
