his watch and glanced at it. "Here, confound it!
My watch has stopped. What time--"

Before he could finish his question the clock began to answer by chiming
twice.

"Half-past what?" cried Sir Hilton, staring at the clock-face, and then
passing his hand over his eyes impatiently. "I say, here, Syd, my eyes
are not clear to-night. What time is it?"

"Half-past three, uncle."

"Half-past what? Here, I'm getting mixed. Why is it half-past three?
What has the clock been gaining like that for? Here, Syd, why don't you
answer, sir? I can't remember. What does it all mean?"

"I think it's because your head's a bit wrong, uncle," said the boy,
shrinking.

"I think it's because you're an impudent young rascal, sir," cried Sir
Hilton in a passion. "Ah! I remember now; I promised you a good
thrashing for--for--"

He stopped short, and looked vacantly at his nephew for some seconds.
Then--

"Here, what the deuce did I promise you a good thrashing for, sir?"

"A thrashing, uncle? Let me see--"

"Bah!" cried Sir Hilton, turning angrily away and making for the
drawing-room again, to find the trainer mopping his forehead where he
sat, and Molly leaning back in the corner of the quilted couch dropping
off to sleep, but ready to start up at his coming.

"Here, you," he cried, "that boy Syd's an idiot."

"That I'm sure he's not," cried the girl, indignantly, "and you oughtn't
to call him so, even if you are his uncle. Syd!"

"You tell me, then," said Sir Hilton. "What did I--Oh, hang it all!" he
cried, "I can't remember a bit."

"That you can't, Sir Hilton," said the trainer, nervously, as Sir Hilton
stared at him blankly, pressing his hands to his head. "It's just what
I told you, Sir Hilton. What you want is a good night's rest, and
you'll feel better in the morning."

"But I feel better now--ever so much. What should I want to go to bed
for? Why, I've only just got up."

"Oh, dear!" groaned the trainer to himself. "I give it him too strong;
I give it him too strong, and it was nothing like what one might ha'
give a horse."

"Look here," cried Sir Hilton, making as if to fix his visitor with a
pointing finger, which he kept in motion following imaginary movements
on the part of Simpkins. "I wish to goodness you'd sit still. What the
dickens do you keep bobbing about like that for? What did you say--go
to bed?"

"Yes, Sir Hilton."

"But why--why? Didn't I just get up?"

"'Bout 'nour ago