by Sawbones out
of sister to Castinette."

And so forth, an endless repetition of genealogies, comments, anecdotes
to which Dickie lent most attentive ear. He was keen to learn, his
attention was on the stretch. He was in process of initiation, and
every moment of the sacred rites came to him with power and value. Yet
it must be owned that he found the lessening of the strain on his
memory and attention not wholly unwelcome when Mr. Chifney, sitting
beside him on the big, white-painted cornbin opposite Diplomacy's
loose-box, began to tell him of the old times when he--a little fellow
of eight to ten years of age--had been among the boys in his cousin,
Sam Chifney's famous stable at Newmarket. Of the long, weary traveling
before the days of railways, when the horses were walked by highroad
and country lane, ankle deep in mud, from Newmarket to Epsom; and after
victory or defeat, walked by slow stages all the way home again. Of
how, later, he had migrated to Doncaster; but, not liking the
"Yorkshire tykes," had got taken on in some well-known stables upon the
Berkshire downs.

"And it was there, Sir Richard," he said, "I met your father, and we
fancied each other from the first. And he asked me to come to him.
These stables were just building then. And here I've been ever since."

Mr. Chifney stared down at the clean red quarries of the stable floor,
and tapped his neat gaiters with the switch he held in his hand.

"Rum places, racing stables," he went on, meditatively; "and a lot of
rum things go on in 'em, one way and another, as you'll come to know.
And it ain't the easiest thing going, I tell you, to keep your hands
clean. Ungrateful business a trainer's, Sir Richard--wearing
business--shortens a man's temper and makes him old before his time.
Out by four o'clock on summer mornings, minding your cattle and keeping
your eye on those shirking blackguards of boys. No real rest, sir, day
or night. Wearing business--studying all the meetings and entering your
horses where you've reason to reckon they've most chance. And if your
horse wins, the jockey gets all the praise and the petting. And if it
fails the trainer gets all the blame. Yes, it's wearing work. But,
confound it all, sir," he broke out hotly, "there's nothing like it on
the face of God's earth. Horses--horses--horses--why the very smell of
the bedding's sweeter than a bunch of roses. Love 'em? I believe you.
And you'll love 'em too before you've done."

H