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.
The voice of Pulcher boomed. “Told you he was a crusty devil. ’And ’im a bit of his own.”
The trainer was coming back.
“My bill,” he said. “When you’ve paid it you can have the mare. I train for gentlemen.”
“The hell you do!” said Pulcher.
‘Jimmy’ said nothing, staring at the bill. Seventy-eight pounds three shillings! A buzzing fly settled in the hollow of his cheek, and he did not even brush it off. Seventy-eight pound!
The sound of hoofs roused him. Here came his horse, throwing up her head as if enquiring why she was being disturbed a second time on Sunday! In the movement of that small head and satin neck was something free and beyond present company.
“There she is,” said the trainer. “That’ll do, Ben. Stand, girl!”
Answering to a jerk or two of the halter, the mare stood kicking slightly with a white hind foot and whisking her tail. Her bright coat shone in the sunlight, and little shivers and wrinklings passed up and down its satin because of the flies. Then, for a moment, she stood still, ears pricked, eyes on the distance.
‘Jimmy’ approached her. She had resumed her twitchings, swishings, and slight kicking, and at a respectful distance he circled, bending as if looking at crucial points. He knew what her sire and dam had done, and all the horses that had beaten or been beaten by them; could have retailed by the half-hour the peculiar hearsay of their careers; and here was their offspring in flesh and blood, and he was dumb! He didn’t know a thing about what she ought to look like, and he knew it; but he felt obscurely moved. She seemed to him ‘a picture.’
Completing his circle, he approached her head, white-blazed, thrown up again in listening, or scenting, and gingerly he laid his hand on her neck, warm and smooth as a woman’s shoulder. She paid no attention to his touch, and he took his hand away. Ought he to look at her teeth or feel her legs? No, he was not buying her, she was his already; but he must say something. He looked round. The trainer was watching him with a little smile. For almost the first time in his life the worm turned in ‘Jimmy’ Shrewin; he spoke no word and walked back to the cart.
“Take her in,” said Jenning.
From his seat beside Pulcher, ‘Jimmy’ watched the mare returning to her box.
“When I’ve cashed your cheque,” said the trainer, “you can send for her;” and, turning on his heel, he went towards his house. The voice of Pulcher followed him.
“Blast your impudence! Git on, bobtail, we’ll shake the dust off ’ere.”
Among the fringing fields the dog-cart hurried away. The sun slanted, the heat grew less, the colour of young wheat and of the charlock brightened.
“The tyke! By Gawd, Jimmy, I’d ’ave hit him on the mug! But you’ve got one there. She’s a bit o’ blood, my boy; and I know the trainer for her, Polman—no blasted airs about ’im.”
‘Jimmy’ sucked at his cheroot.
“I ain’t had your advantages, George, and that’s a fact. I got into it too young, and I’m a little chap. But I’ll send the —— my cheque to-morrow. I got my pride, I ’ope.” It was the first time that thought had ever come to him.