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Chapter Sixteen.
Rather Equivocal

Lady Lisle gave an angry, shuddering look of disgust as she glanced round the sanctuary of the high priest of sport, noting the pictures and hunting trophies, and then holding her highly-scented handkerchief to her delicate nostrils, which were sharply assailed by spirituous exhalations and the fumes of the noxious weed.

“Oh,” she mused, “that it should come to this – a publican’s daughter, a low-bred wench. Oh, Hilton, Hilton! But – ah! I am determined. I will see it to the end.”

She was kept waiting quite five minutes, which she passed standing like a statue in the middle of the hall, till there was a husky cough, and Simpkins came hurrying out, trying with fat, clumsy fingers to thrust a little white, folded paper, very suggestive of “the powder at night” into his waistcoat pocket, where it refused at first to go.

“Beg pardon, my lady,” he said, after a quick glance up at the gallery. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Very busy to-day.”

“Mr Simpkins?” said the lady, haughtily.

“That’s me, my lady; but if you want accommodation I’m afraid we’re full.”

“My husband – Sir Hilton Lisle. He is here?” said the lady, sternly.

The trainer’s jaw dropped, and, like lightning, a thought flashed through his brain.

The wife, to stop the gentleman from mounting the mare! It was salvation.

But the next moment the hope died out. In such an emergency the wife’s appeal would be as so much breath. It would be like grasping at a shadow and letting the substance go.

“Do you not understand, my man?” said Lady Lisle, impatiently. “My husband – he is here?”

“Sir Hilton Lisle, Bart.?” said the trainer, who determined to stick to the substance and let the shadow glide. “Oh, no, my lady, he ain’t here.”

“Where is he, then?”

“I dunno, my lady,” replied the man, coolly. “At the races, I should suppose.”

“How could I find him in all that crowd?” murmured the unhappy woman. Then, setting her teeth hard to suppress the feeling of passion that was growing fast, she turned to the man again, and her voice was perfectly firm and cold, as she said authoritatively: “You have a daughter, man?”

“That’s right, my lady,” said the trainer, and he smiled faintly. “Oh,” he continued, “I suppose I know what brings your ladyship here.”

And once more a thought crossed his mind as to the possibility of stopping Sir Hilton’s jockeyship by setting his wife upon his track. But he dismissed it directly, to respond to his visitor’s command.

“I suppose you do, sir,” she said haughtily. “Send the woman here.”

“Woman, eh? Why, she’s a mere gal, my lady.”

“Don’t speak to me like that, man,” cried Lady Lisle. “Where is your daughter?”

“On the grand stand, I s’pose, along o’ him.”

“This is monstrous!” cried Lady Lisle, passionately. “Oh, man, can you stand there with that base effrontery and speak to me like this?”

“Can I, my lady? Yes. Why not? I’m not your paid servant, and I dessay if we totted up together and compared notes, I, Sam Simpkins, trainer, could show as good a hincome as your ladyship. At least, I could yesterday,” he muttered.

“Yes, yes, no doubt; but have you no sense of the moral wrong? Are you shameless, or ignorant of your responsibility to your child?”

“Well, you’re a-pitching it pretty strong, my lady; but I won’t kick, for I dessay you do find it rather a bitter pill to swallow.”

“Man, you are shameless!” cried Lady Lisle, and the trainer chuckled.

“Well, my lady, I’m not troubled much with that sort o’ thing. Bashfulness is a bit in the way in my trade.”

“I’ll set it down to ignorance, then.”

“That’s better, my lady. I never set up as a scholar.”

“Let me appeal to you, then. Have you done nothing to stop it?”

“Never knowed a word about it till this blessed morning, my lady,” cried the trainer, with a display of indignation. “Saucy young baggage! She kep’ it dark enough.”

“Ha! Then you have some feeling for your child.”

“Feeling, my lady! Course I have; and I’d ha’ stopped it if I’d known before it was too late.”

Lady Lisle winced as if she had received a blow. “But, now – now,” she cried, “you will immediately take proceedings?”

“Bah! What can I do?”

“Oh, think, man, of the wrong it is doing me.”

“Tchah! It’s of no use to talk now, my lady. Pride’s a very nice thing in its way, but they say it must have a fall. Love and natur’, my lady, gets the better of us all. You and me understands what it is, and you see now that you couldn’t always have him tied to your apron-string.”

“Man, have you no feeling?”

“Quite enough for my business, my lady.”

“But I insist you shall stop it at once.”

“Don’t I tell you, my lady,” cried the trainer, with a glance up at number one, “that it’s too late? She’ll be having him hear her directly,” he added to himself. “There, chuck it up, my lady,” he continued, “and go home. This place on a race day ain’t sootable for you. Take my word, you’ll soon get used to it.”

“The man is a monster,” groaned Lady Lisle, wringing her hands. “Man, man,” she cried, “you shock me. If you have no feeling or respect for your child – ”

“Me, my lady? Of course, I have. Why,” added the trainer, “I like it.”

“Wretched man! Such depravity!”

“Depravity be blowed, my lady! Here, I can put up with a good deal, but you’re pitching it too strong. Come, I won’t get in a temper with you, my lady, though I am horribly tried just now. Come, I’m speaking fair as a man can speak; hadn’t you better climb down?”

“Think of the scandal, man.”

“My name’s Simpkins, my lady, please. If your set may call it a scandal, mine won’t mind. As for me, I think it’s a very good thing for the girl.”

“I can bear no more of this,” muttered Lady Lisle, faintly. “It is too much. Oh! man, man, I looked for help and sympathy from you; but in your shameless ignorance you have done nothing but outrage my feelings.”

“Very sorry, my lady; but you should have come and met me civil-like, as the father of as pretty a lass as ever stepped. ’Stead o’ which you comes in your carriage and walks in on stilts, and begins a-bully-ragging me as if I was still Sir Hilton’s servant. Now, look here, my lady, you’ve kep’ on calling me man, man, man, and it’s true I am a man, and a man with a temper; but I don’t like to be reminded of it over and over again, and in my own house, because them two began making love, as is the nat’ralest thing in natur’.”

Lady Lisle felt exhausted, and she made a gesture as if to speak.

“No, you’ve had your innings, my lady, and I don’t keep calling you woman, woman, woman. Now, here’s what I’ve got to say as a fine-ale – the thing’s happened, and you’ve got to make the best of it. My Molly’s out yonder with the chap she loves and who loves her. You can’t get at ’em, and if you behave sensible you’ll get back in your carriage and go straight home, and the sooner the better, or I shall have to show you the door, for I’ve got something in the way of a big business to do. By and by, when you get cool, you’ll see as it’s no use to be orty, and if you like to come down off the stilts and ask my Molly to join you at the Denes, well and good.”

“Oh!” gasped the visitor in horror.

“Very well, if you don’t I shan’t fret. I know what you’ve done long enough, keeping him like at the Denes; but I can afford it, even if I am hard hit to-day. It only means putting an extra knife and fork at my table, where he shall be welcome till you drop the orty and ’old your ’and – Hullo! Feel upset, my lady? That’s pride and temper.”

“Don’t touch me, man!” panted the suffering woman; “it would be pollution. Oh, Hilton, Hilton!” she moaned as she strove to steady herself to the door and managed to walk out of the porch and step feebly into the carriage.

“Home!” she said, in a deep, hollow voice before she sank back, unconscious of the excitement and noise around, and moaned softly. “Home? No; it is home no more.”

This giving way to one set of feelings lasted but a few moments, for there rose up before her imagination the figure of her husband seated somewhere with her young and handsome rival, possibly hand in hand, watching the scene before them, and a wave of fierce passion swept all before it. The next minute, to the astonishment and satisfaction of her disappointed coachman, who was longing to see one heat if not more, she stood up in the barouche and prodded him with her parasol.

“Turn back,” she said, “and drive to where I can have a good view of the race.”

Chapter Seventeen.
La Sylphide’s Health

“Orty, stuck-up popinjay!” growled the trainer, mopping his forehead. “But she’s got to come down. And me on pins and needles all the time for fear he should open his door and she see him! I did feel as if it might be right to let her, but his monkey would have been up, and she couldn’t have stopped him from riding. Hullo!” he said, as he saw Trimmer at the office-door. “Not gone!”

“No,” whispered the agent. “I felt obliged to stay.”

“And I feel obliged to kick you out. So cut.”

“No, no, Mr Simpkins.”

“Look here, sir, if that job’s to be done, I can do it. I don’t want no complications. You can stand by me if it gets blown and there’s a job for the police. As it is, I’ll do it or not do it, without your meddling and putting in your spoon. Take your hook, dyer hear, and before he comes.”

At that very moment there was the rattle of a door handle in the gallery, and a familiar voice exclaimed: “One moment, Sir Hilton, you’ve left your whip.”

“Give it me; but she’ll want no whip.”

The trainer made a fierce gesture, and the agent retreated through the office, while the former thrust his fat finger and thumb into his waistcoat pocket unconsciously as he advanced towards the foot of the stairs, down which Sir Hilton came carefully, so as not to catch his spurs in the carpet, and closely followed by Mark Willows, bearing a long drab greatcoat. The baronet looked the very pink of a gentleman-rider in his light-blue satin shirt, diagonally crossed over the right shoulder by a broad scarlet scarf-like band, and scarlet jockey cap to match. His breeches and boots fitted to perfection, and as he stepped lightly into the middle of the hall, almost on the very spot which his wife had occupied, there was a keen look in his grey eyes and a slight quivering about his well-cut nostrils, making him seem alert, ready, and quite the man who might be trusted with a race.

“There,” he said sharply; “how long have I to spare?”

“Good half-hour, sir,” said the trainer, gazing at his guest as if full of pride at his appearance.

“Leave that coat on the chair, there, man, and go and wait for me at the paddock.”

Mark touched his hat and passed out, eager to get on to the field of battle, swarming with objects of interest to the groom’s eyes, while Simpkins approached his guest, smiling and rubbing his hands.

“Well, Sam,” said Sir Hilton, shortly; “do I look all right?”

“All right, Sir Hilton? Splendid!”

The eager admiration seemed to be perfectly real, as the trainer walked round, inspecting carefully.

“Not your old things, are they, Sir Hilton?”

“Oh, yes. Been lying by these three years. Look – creased and soiled?”

“Fresh as a daisy, Sir Hilton. Why, its like old times. Here, hang the business! It may take care of itself to-day. I’m coming to see you ride.”

The man spoke back over his shoulder, as, leaving his guest shaking himself down in the unaccustomed garb, he hurried into the office, where a pop was heard, and he returned, bearing a waiter, on which was a foaming champagne bottle and a couple of glasses.

This he placed upon a little marble table, and began to fill the glasses with trembling hands, a little in first one and then in the other, till the cream ceased to threaten flowing over, when he placed the bottle by itself and bore the waiter and its glasses towards the guest. “Hullo! What have you got there, Sam?”

“Irroy, black seal, Sir Hilton.”

“I see; but I didn’t order it.”

“No, Sir Hilton, but you won’t mind taking a glass with the old trainer – to La Sylphide, and the winning of the cup?”

“No, no, no, man. Nonsense! Very good of you, but I want a cool head and a steady hand.”

“Of course you do, Sir Hilton; but one glass o’ dry fizz! Not much harm in that, Sir Hilton. You’ll do me the honour, sir, just for luck? Tighten up your nerves, and make you win in a canter.”

“Do you want me to win, Sam?” said Sir Hilton, sharply.

“Win, Sir Hilton? Of course. I thought I was going to lose heavily, but I’ve put it right, and it means a couple of hundred if you sail in first.”

“And if I lose?”

“I shall be just about even, Sir Hilton,” said the man, with a grin, as he held out the tray.

“Well,” said Sir Hilton, whose cheeks were flushed with excitement, “I shall win, Sam.”

He took up the clear, foaming glass, from up whose centre the tiny beads were rising fast, like a fountain, to break and add to the sparkling foam. “Here’s La Sylphide, Sam.”

“Here’s La Sylphide, Sir Hilton,” cried the trainer, “and thanking my old master for the honour done to his old trainer Simpkins, chrissen Sam.”

As he spoke he fixed his eyes full upon those of the gaily-dressed jockey facing him, and, taking his time from his guest, raised the glass to his lips and kept it there till it was drained, before holding out the salver for Sir Hilton’s empty glass.

“Bah! Too dry,” said Sir Hilton, with a slight grimace. “How long have you had that wine?”

“’Bout seven year, Sir Hilton,” replied the man, setting down the waiter and replacing the bottle by the glasses, but so clumsily that he knocked over his guest’s glass, which was shivered to atoms on the floor.

“Oh, I beg pardon, Sir Hilton! I’m so excited with the race that my head’s all of a shake. Hi, somebody, a clean glass!”

The barmaid ran out with the fresh glass, and she was followed by one of the other maids with a dustpan and brush.

“That’s right, my lass; be careful; don’t leave any bits.”

As he spoke he lifted the little marble table out of the maid’s way and filled the glasses again, before raising the waiter to hand it for the second time to his guest.

“No, no, Sam; one’s enough.”

“What, Sir Hilton! You won’t wet the other eye?”

“No, not even if I were not going to ride. That wine’s bad.”

“Bad, Sir Hilton?” cried the trainer, raising his own glass to the light, sniffing at it, tasting it cautiously, and then looking again at his visitor. “Mouth must be a bit out o’ taste with the excitement. Seems to me – ” He raised his glass to his lips again, took a good pull, and then drained and set it down. “Beg your pardon, Sir Hilton,” he said; “I don’t set up for a judge, but I wouldn’t wish to taste a better drop o’ cham than that.”

“Glad you like it,” said Sir Hilton, tetchily.

“Try it again, sir. Give your mouth a rinse out with it, and then finish the glass.”

“No, thanks; that will do. Bah! I can taste it now,” said Sir Hilton, snappishly, and he smacked his lips, and then passed his tongue over them two or three times as he walked hastily up and down, tapping his boot with the gold-mounted whip he held.

Simpkins watched him furtively and moved towards the bar, but turned, and seemed to force himself to his guest’s side. “Oh, yes, Sir Hilton,” he said, “you’ll win; and it’ll be, as I said afore, two ’underd in my pocket, while, if you lose, which you won’t, it’ll bring me within a fiver or so of home.”

“Get away! Don’t bother,” said his victim, sharply.

“Right, Sir Hilton. Course you’ve a deal on your head now, but, if you wouldn’t mind, I think I’ll have half a glass more of that wine before it gets flat.”

“Bah!” ejaculated the baronet. “Thank ye, Sir Hilton,” said the man, refilling his glass, to stand watching his visitor while sipping slowly, and muttering every time he raised his trembling hand something about “good glass of wine.”

Suddenly Sir Hilton made a quick turn and walked sharply towards the door, making the trainer set down his glass hurriedly, glance at the bar-window to see if he was observed, and then follow his guest to the door; but, before he reached it, the baronet turned round and walked back, close by the landlord, without appearing to notice him.

“Can’t stand it no longer,” muttered the man to himself. “Hah! Wonder whether it will come off?”

He glanced at his victim sharply, saw that he was talking softly to himself in the intervals of passing his tongue impatiently over his lips and making a peculiar sound as if tasting.

“Tlat, tlat, tlat! Too dry. Burns and smarts,” he said impatiently, and then clapped his hand quickly to his head.

“Why not try another glass, Sir Hilton?” said the trainer; but no heed was taken of his words.

“It’s a-working,” muttered the man. “Hope I didn’t give him too much.”

He glanced at the bright blue and scarlet figure again, and then, drawing a deep breath he once more moved towards the door of his office, where he stopped inside watching.

“Why, it’s like giving him the jumps,” he muttered. “Well, if it do go wrong, I ain’t done nothing. It’s the drink. He must ha’ been having it heavy before he came here; and if that won’t do, I’m blest if I’m going to stand the racket all alone.”

He stood watching his victim for quite ten minutes, during which time the drug he had administered, one of whose properties as a trainer and veterinary surgeon he was well aware, was working with wonderful rapidity; and this was accelerated suddenly by Sir Hilton’s action, for to the trainer’s great delight, the poor fellow gave a lurch which brought him near the little table, where he recovered himself, saw the bottle and glass, and seized the former with his left hand.

“Dry – thirsty!” he said hurriedly; and making an effort he poured out another glass of wine, drained it, and was in the act of setting down the glass when Granton came hurrying in, and Simpkins drew back out of sight.

Chapter Eighteen.
How the Bees Swarmed

“Ah, Hilt, old chap, there you are! Lady T. says you must come at once, and – Hang it, man, don’t do that!”

Sir Hilton turned on hearing the familiar voice and stared at the speaker, who snatched the bottle from his hand.

“What are you doing?” he said sharply, as the doctor held the bottle up to the light.

“What am I doing?” cried Granton, in a rage. “Hang it, man, you’ve never been such a fool as to drink all this?”

“Yes; horrid stuff – dry – horribly dry.”

He smacked his lips two or three times over and shook his head, repeating the action, and then turned to walk right across the hall towards the door.

“C’rect cards, gents; all the runners – on’y a shilling!” come from Dandy Dinny, who appeared in the porch, staring in with curious eyes.

“Get out – curse you!” cried Sir Hilton, making a couple of sharp lashes with his whip in the man’s direction. “Take the miserable mongrel away. Dogs indeed! Dog! Man don’t want dogs who’s going to ride a big race.”

“No, nor bad cham neither,” cried Granton, furiously, catching his old friend by the arm. “Why, Hilt, you must have been mad.”

“Eh? Mad? Yes, she makes me very mad sometimes.”

“Bah! Mad to go on the drink at a time like this. Here, pull yourself together, man.”

“Drink?” said Sir Hilton, sharply, his voice perfectly clear and distinct. “Yes, cursed stuff! Gooseberry wine, I believe. Vintage of France? Pish! Pretty France! Old gooseberry! Don’t order any more, Jack. Dry champagne; dry enough to mix with paint. Have S. and B.”

“Here, I’m not going to bully you now. Shake yourself up. You must be coming on now.”

“Eh? What for? Coming on?”

“Yes!” cried Granton, in a passion. “Hang it, man, you’re regularly fuddled!”

“Fuddled? I? Absurd! Only a glass or two. Look at me. Fuddled! You’re a fool, Jack! Oh, yes, I remember – the race.”

“Then come on,” cried Granton. “You look all right.”

“Oh, yes, I’m all right. Did you think I was tight?”

“Well, something of the kind. Come along.”

“Don’t hang on to a man like that,” said Sir Hilton, shaking himself free with an angry jerk. “Want to spoil my satin? Hi! Ha! Sh!”

He made a rush, and two or three cuts in the air with his whip, which the trainer, who was standing back in the office watching, took to mean given at him, and slipped behind the door.

Granton did not see him, his attention being taken up by the insane action of his friend, whom he once more caught by the arm.

“What’s the matter with you?” he shouted. “Are you going daft?”

“Eh? What?” cried Sir Hilton, looking at him angrily. “Nonsense! Can’t you see the little beasts?”

“D.T., by jingo!” muttered the doctor. “Why, he must have been on the drink for a week! I must get him there somehow. Here, Hilt, old man, its saddling up and weighing time. Come on. La Sylphide looks lovely, and Lady T. all anxiety about you. Rouse up, old chap.”

“All right. Wait till I’ve killed a few of these little beasts.”

To the horror and astonishment of his friend, Sir Hilton made another dash and rush, darting here and there all over the hall, cutting and swishing about with his heavy riding-whip as if it were a sabre, and he a mounted cavalry man, putting the well-learnt pursuing practice well into effect upon the enemy he seemed to see.

“What the deuce shall I do?” muttered the doctor, breathlessly, after playing the enemy in his efforts to escape a slash.

“That cham, Jack,” cried Sir Hilton, catching his friend by the arm. “Sham, and no mistake. Not fizz at all, but that old brewing of honey – mead – metheglin – old Saxon swizzle. There they go again – the bees – swarming – all round and round my head. Yah! Look out – you’ll be stung.”

“Oh, I’m all right,” said Granton, humouring him. “Be cool. Stand still a moment, and let them go.”

“Thousands upon thousands of them,” cried Sir Hilton. “B-r-r-r-r-r! Look how they dart about in diamonds, zig-zags, rhomboids – buzz-z!”

“Yes. How queer!” said Granton, taking the speaker’s arm again. “Let’s walk quietly out into the air. They won’t follow us out.”

“I don’t know,” cried the unfortunate man, shaking himself free and holding his hand and whip as if to guard his head. “Buzz! B-r-r-r! How they are going it! Jack, old man, someone ought to get a hive. Rub it with beer and sugar. Take the swarm, you know. Swarm of bees, you know.”

“Swarm of bees in May.”

“Is worth a load of hay.”

“Yes, old man; but we haven’t time now. Come along. La Sylphide’s waiting. Oh, if I could only get him mounted! He’d ride like the very deuce, thinking that the bees were after him.”

“Let me be, you fool!” cried Sir Hilton, angrily. “Take care of yourself, you coward. You’ll be getting us both stung. Oh, I see; on the look-out for a job. Cure the patient’s stings. Ammonia, eh? I know. Country gentleman picks up a bit. Here, horrible!” he cried, with a frantic leap aside. “They’re settling on me. Swarms – millions – hanging in pockets like they do outside a hive. Buzz-uzz-zz! Here, Jack, old man, I daren’t move. Come and sweep ’em off. Steady – softly. Quiet does it. There she is – the queen. Take her gently. She won’t sting. That’s good; now pop her in the hive, and they’ll all follow her. Hah-h-h-h! That’s better. Awkward position for a man to have the bees settling upon him and getting into his hair.”

“Very, old chap; but they’re all gone now.”

“Not quite, Jack. Don’t you hear the mur-mur-mur-mur – ?”

“Oh, yes; quite plain.”

“Pooh!” cried Sir Hilton, with a sudden change coming over him. “What a fool I am! I thought it was the bees, and all the time it’s only the murmur of the crowd on the racecourse.”

“Why, so it is,” said the doctor. “I thought it was bees.”

“No, the people; and I’ve got to ride in the big race.”

“To be sure, so you have, old chap. Suppose we go and look at the mare.”

Sir Hilton was quite quiet now, and looked at him seriously.

“Oh, my poor darling!” groaned the doctor. “Whatever shall I do? If I got him a dose he wouldn’t be fit to ride. Coming, Hilt?” he said calmly.

“Yes, directly, Jack. Let’s see. I must be quite cool and steady, and not fidget the mare. It’s a safe thing, and as soon as I’ve won this race I’ll be tempted no more, Jack, but settle down with the wife – bless her! She means well, Jack. This coup will make me independent, and balance matters. I shall take my position then, you see, and not feel so poverty-stricken – asking one’s wife for every sov.”

“I see. Come along,” said the doctor. “If I could only get him out into the air. I daren’t give him more drink.”

“Don’t hurry me,” said Sir Hilton, coolly rearranging his silk and pulling up his breeches. “I want you to understand, Jack. I’m doing this for independence, to save dear Lady T. – bless her! A good woman. Always been like a sister to me. Jolly little widow! And to make a pile for you, old man, so that you can marry her, have two children, and live happy ever after like a good boy.”

“Yes, that’s it, Hilt, old man,” cried the doctor, desperately, for the clanging of a bell on the racecourse came faintly to his ear. “Come along, then, and win. Quick!”

He caught his old friend by the arm to get him out at all hazards; but it was like touching a spring which set free a lid in the poor fellow’s brain.

For, with a fierce cry – which brought the perspiration out in great drops over the trainer’s face where he listened and watched – Sir Hilton began rushing about the hall again, cutting and slashing furiously.

“Here they are again,” he cried; “thousands – millions of them. B-r-r-r-r-r-r! Sets my head on fire. Keep off, you little imps. There, there, and there! Hah!” he cried at last, dropping breathlessly into a chair. “Br! I was too much for them,” he said, laughing weakly. “Rather queer, though, for them to choose a race day to swarm. But – I’ve got to win, and I mean to.”

“Here, Hilt, old chap,” said Granton, who as a last resource had determined to try a hair of the dog which had bitten his friend, and he drained three-parts of a glass of the champagne into one of the glasses, and was offering it to his friend – “tip this drop off and come on.”

The words acted like magic. Sir Hilton started up and dashed the wine aside.

“What!” he cried. “Do you think I’m mad? Drink at a time like this? No, sir!”

“No, dear; wait here,” cried Syd, outside. “I’ll join you again directly I’ve found him,” and Syd rushed in breathlessly.

“Who’s that?” cried Sir Hilton.

“Oh, there you are, uncle! Hooray! You look splendid. The winning colours. Hooray! I’ve got on that tenner.”

“Here, Syd,” cried Sir Hilton, catching the boy by the arm and whispering mysteriously, “can you hear the bees?”

“Hear the what?” cried the boy, staring.

“The bees; they’re coming back – swarming. Buzz – buzz – buzz! Listen! There they go!”

“Gammon, uncle. It’s the crowd on the course – swarming in thousands.”

“Yes, that’s it, Syd. Take care, you’ll get stung, my boy! Ugh! You beast! Would you!” and whish, whish, whish went the whip, as an imaginary insect was beaten down to the floor and followed and stamped on by its slayer. “That has settled you.”

“Why, doctor,” cried Syd, who had been staring at his uncle, open-mouthed, “don’t say he’s coxybobus!”

“I wasn’t going to, my boy, but he’s horribly screwed.”

“Screwed? He can’t ride. It must be D.T. Here, uncle,” cried the boy, seizing him and shaking him violently, “pull yourself together. You’ve got to ride.”

“Yes, all right, my boy; and your aunt must never know. There, don’t tear my shirt. Hear them – the bees again? Do you recollect, my little man, ‘How doth the little busy bee,’ eh?”

At that moment Molly, wondering at the buzz of conversation within, forgot her young husband’s orders to wait, and came into the hall, to stare wonderingly.

“Oh, Syd, what is the matter with your uncle?”

“Don’t bother. Got ’em. What’s to be done, doctor? Here, I know,” he said, staring the while at Sir Hilton, who had seized a chair, turned it, and sat down crosswise, to keep on lashing at imaginary bees. “Soda – ”

“Water,” cried the doctor.

“I’ll fetch a bottle,” cried Syd.

“Cold, to the head,” cried the doctor. “Pump. No; I’ll fetch a pail. No; I know, and I’ll risk it, for it’s our only chance.”

As the pair rushed off, the one into the bar, the other through the porch, two of the maids appeared as audience in the gallery, two more in the bar entrance, and the trainer, perspiring profusely, remained in his private box – to wit, the office, watching for the outcome of Trimmer’s plan, while his gaily-dressed child approached the stricken man sympathetically.