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?"