ck after all," the trainer
said, with evident relish. "Well then, since you do care for horses as
you ought to, Sir Richard, we'll just make you free of this
establishment. About the most first-class private establishment in
England, sir, though I say it that have run the concern pretty well
single-handed for the best part of the last fifteen years--make you
free of it right away, sir. And, look you, when you've got hold, don't
you leave hold."

"No, I won't," Dickie said stoutly.

Mr. Chifney was in a condition of singular emotion, as he wrapped
Richard's rug about him and bore him away into the stables. He even
went so far as to swear a little under his breath; and Chifney was a
very fairly clean-mouthed man, unless members of his team of twenty and
odd naughty boys got up to some devilry with their charges. He carried
Richard as tenderly as could any woman, while he tramped from stall to
stall, loose-box to loose-box, praising his racers, calling attention
to their points, recounting past prowess, or prophesying future
victories.

And the record was a fine one; for good luck had clung to the
masterless stable, as Lady Calmady's bank-books and ledgers could
testify.

"Vinedresser by Red Burgundy out of Valeria--won two races at the
Newmarket Spring Meeting the year before last. Lamed himself somehow in
the horse-box coming back--did nothing for eighteen months--hope to
enter him for some of the autumn events."--Then later:--"Sahara, by
North African out of Sally-in-our-Alley. Beautiful mare? I believe you,
Sir Richard. Why she won the Oaks for you. Jack White was up. Pretty a
race as ever I witnessed, and cleverly ridden. Like to go up to her in
the stall? She's as quiet as a lamb. Catch hold of her head, boy."

And so Dick found himself seated on the edge of the manger, the
trainer's arm round him, and the historic Sahara snuffing at his jacket
pockets.

Then they crossed the quadrangle to inspect the colts and fillies,
where glories still lay ahead.

"Verdigris by Copper King out of Valeria again. And if he doesn't make
a name I'll never judge another horse, sir. Strain of the old
Touchstone blood there. Rather ugly? Yes, they're often a bit ugly that
lot, but devilish good uns to go. You ask Miss Cathcart about them.
Never met a lady who'd as much knowledge as she has of a horse. The
Baby, by Punch out of Lady Bountiful. Not much good, I'm afraid. No
grip, you see, too contracted in the hoofs. Chloroform