He looked round with his screwed-up eyes at his friend George Pulcher, who, man and licensed victualler, had his bally independence; lived remote from ‘the Quality’ in his paradise, the Green Dragon; had not to kowtow to anyone; went to Newbury, Gatwick, Stockbridge, here and there, at will. Ah! George Pulcher had the ideal life--and looked it: crimson, square, full-bodied. Judge of a horse, too, in his own estimation; a leery bird--for whose judgment ‘Jimmy’ had respect--who got ‘the office’ of any clever work as quick as most men! And he said: “What am I going to do with this blinkin’ ’orse, George?” Without moving its head the oracle spoke in a voice rich and raw: “Let’s ’ave a look at her first, Jimmy! Don’t like her name--Calliope; but you can’t change what’s in the Stud-book. This Jenning that trains ’er is a crusty chap.” ‘Jimmy’ nervously sucked-in his lips. The cart was mounting through the hedgeless fields which fringed the Downs; larks were singing, the wheat was very green, the patches of charlock brightened everything; it was lonely, few trees, few houses, no people, extreme peace, just a few rooks crossing under a blue sky. “Wonder if he’ll offer us a drink?” said ‘Jimmy.’ “Not he; but help yourself, my son.” ‘Jimmy’ helped himself from a large wicker-covered flask. “Good for you, George--here’s how!” The large man shifted the reins and drank, in turn, tilting up a face whose jaw still struggled to assert itself against chins and neck. “Well, here’s to your bloomin’ horse,” he said. “She can’t win the Derby now, but she may do us a bit of good yet.” II The trainer, Jenning, coming from his Sunday afternoon round of the boxes, heard the sound of wheels. He was a thin man, neat in clothes and boots, medium in height, with a slight limp, narrow grey whiskers, thin shaven lips, eyes sharp and grey. A dog-cart stopping at his yard-gate; and a rum-looking couple of customers! “Well, gentlemen?” “Mr. Jenning? My name’s Pulcher--George Pulcher. Brought a client of yours over to see his new mare. Mr. James Shrewin, Oxford city.” ‘Jimmy’ got down and stood before his trainer’s uncompromising stare. “What mare’s that?” said Jenning. “Callĭōpe.” “Callīŏpĕ--Mr. Colquhoun’s?” ‘Jimmy’ held out a letter. “DEAR JENNING, “I have sold Calliope to Jimmy Shrewin, the Oxford bookie. He takes her with all engagements and liabilities, including your training bill. I’m frightfully sick at having to part with her, but needs must when the devil drives. “GARDON COLQUHOUN.” The trainer folded the letter. “Got proof of registration?” ‘Jimmy’ drew out another paper. The trainer inspected it, and called out: “Ben, bring out Calliope. Excuse me a minute,” and he walked into his house. ‘Jimmy’ stood, shifting from leg to leg. Mortification had set in; the dry abruptness of the trainer had injured even a self-esteem starved from youth.