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 antic.i.p.ated 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 antic.i.p.ation 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!"