"Well, then, let's both go down on our knees to him."

"But he's just off to the races."

"Well, what of that? It wouldn't take long, and it would be like
rehearsing our parts ready to appear before your aunt."

"No, no, no. Now, look here, I've got it. Wife must obey her husband.
You swore you would."

"Yes, dear, I did, but--"

"But be blowed! You've got to do it, Tit. Now, then, you hop on your
bike."

"But, Syd, there you go again."

"Hold your tongue, or how am I to teach you your part?"

"Very well," said the girl, stifling a sob.

"You told me just now that your father's making up a book on Jim Crow."

The girl used the handkerchief, stuffed it back in her boy-husband's
pocket, and nodded rather sulkily.

"What's he doing that for?"

"Because the other--La Sylphide's scratched."

"That she isn't. She's going to run."

"No. Josh Rowle's down with D.T."

"That don't matter. She's going to run and win. You've got to go back
and dress for the race. You can't go like that. There'd be too much
chaff on the course, and I'm not going to have my wife show up like this
on the stands."

"No, dear. I've got a new frock--lovely."

"Well, look sharp and run back, and I'll come over in the dogcart with
uncle, and come straight to your dad and give him a tip that will put
him in a good temper."

"You will, Syd?" cried the girl, joyfully. "And confess all?"

"Every jolly bit. Quick! Kiss! Cut."

La Sylphide, of the Orphoean, Dudley Square, London, was quick as
lightning. She kissed like a wife who loved her juvenile lord, and she
"cut". In other words, devoid of slang, she vaulted out of the window,
stagily, as she had been taught by a ballet-master, sprang on to her
bicycle, and went off like the wind; but rather too late, for the door
opened, and Sir Hilton hurried in, closely followed by Mark Willows,
bearing a large brown leather Gladstone bag.

CHAPTER NINE.

SYD PLAYS TRUMPS--AND WINS.

As Sir Hilton entered, Syd started from the window, whistling loudly to
drown the click, click, click, clack of the swing gate, shuffled his
creel round to his back, and seized the fly-rod, wincing though, and
bracing himself up as he saw his uncle staring after the flying figure.

"Here, you, sir," he cried; "what chap's that?"

"Schoolfellow of mine, uncle."

"You fibbing young dog, how dare you tell me that lie! Why, it's a
girl, and I've seen her before somewhere."

"A girl, un