"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. CHAPTER NINETEEN. WHILE TIME WAS ON THE WING. "Have you got 'em, Sir Hilton?" said Molly, going close up to his side. "Round and round and round," said Sir Hilton, "and now zig-zag, zig-zag, zigger, zagger, zag." He described the imaginary bees' flight with the point of his whip, and seemed not to have heard the words addressed to him. But all of a sudden he caught sight of the bright colours of the girl's dress, and it took his attention at once. "Hullo!" he cried, "what colour--what jock's this? Why, it's--what's the matter with my eyes? It's a pretty girl--it's--why it's Syd's little flame." "Yes, Sir Hilton," said the girl, smiling. "Yes, uncle." "Quite right, my dear. I'm Syd's uncle. My mouth's horribly dry, my dear, but don't ask me to drink, because I'm going to ride for the cup, and _it_ might attract the bees. But they're gone now. I say, I don't wonder at Syd. There, it's nature, I suppose. Boys will be boys; and you're the beautiful La Sylphide, so full of go. La Sylphide--yes, La Sylphide," he repeated excitedly, and he gave a sudden lurch.