e. 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 coarse and
brutal face. "I begin to see now how it is. My