CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

MEPHISTOPHELES AT WORK.

What the trainer did was to return to the bar and swallow a gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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, b.u.t.toning 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 coa.r.s.e 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."