"Haven't forgotten your 'carpeting' yet, then, Scotty? It _was_ bad luck. I expected them to send for me too, as the trainer. I think I should have asked one of 'em to ride the mare a few times, to see how in and out she runs. I've got her in a Selling Hurdle at Wye next week, and win or lose, she's to be sold--can't afford to keep such a dangerous customer as that, can we, Scotty?" "We can _not_," the other agreed with feeling. "A 'orse like that would break the Bank of England, an' then win a nice race direc'ly you sold 'er." The two strolled round all the boxes--Chris had eight horses in his charge now--and when he had seen them all done up, went in to breakfast, attended by his dogs, as usual. No matter in what part of the house he might be, or how long absent, his faithful escort of three awaited him, eager, loving, full of warm welcome, and if the fox-terrier, "Copper," were sometimes jealous of his son "Penny's" accomplished tricks, and Chris had occasionally to smack them both into good behaviour, "Cypka," the bull-pup, gave him no trouble whatever, acting, indeed, as foster-mother to the other two, and occasional peacemaker. Chris's eye fell on a letter from Gay Lawless among his correspondence, and his face brightened as he opened it. "Dear Chris," he read, "I shall be very glad to see you any day for tea and a chat. I've got the Trotting mania badly, and though I know it isn't much in your line, I _must_ talk to somebody about it, and dear old Frank is so difficult to interest on any subject except science. If you're not racing anywhere, do come in to tea to-morrow afternoon. Lossie's coming, and I also expect Mr. Mackrell, who thinks he has found a couple of useful Trotters for me. I am so anxious to begin.--Yours sincerely, "GAY LAWLESS." Chris Hannen digested the news with mixed feelings. "Gay's mad on Trotting," he thought, "and it's no sort of game for her. Carlton Mackrell has no business to help her, though, to do him justice, after what he said the other day, I can't accuse him of aiding and abetting exactly. He is deadly in earnest about Gay, and he'll have opportunities enough now, confound him!" Yet Chris smiled as he folded her letter up, and put it into his pocket--the breastpocket. "All's fair in love and--racing, I suppose, whether it's jumping or Trotting." Mrs. Summers, Chris's housekeeper, came in at that moment, and interrupted his thoughts, which were somewhat interfering with his breakfast. She had occupied to Chris the same position as Min Toplady did to Gay, but in appearance was a direct contrast, for tall, angular, and determined-looking, she inspired awe in all save her familiars, who were few.