ir, 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.

"Oh, mind, Sir Hilton!" cried the girl, catching at and supporting him.
"He isn't fit to ride. I'll fetch father."

She made an effort to get free, but Sir Hilton clung to her tightly, to
rebalance himself in the chair, the name of the mare, the bright colour,
and his attitude now combining to switch his mind off from the buzzing
bees to the race, which now became dominant in his brain.

"Wo-ho! Holdup, little one," he cried. "Want to break your knees?"

"Of course I don't, Sir Hilton," cried the girl, indignantly. "You
shouldn't talk like that."

"Those girths don't seem quite tight enough, my beauty," muttered Sir
Hilton. "Never mind; I can keep my balance. Give you more room to
brea