In the stable he stuffed up the window with a sack and lit a lamp. Cat’s Meat raised his head and winked at him—winked at him solemnly. It was a solemn occasion—they both felt it, this setting of a daughter at defiance, while horse and master went on the bust.
The preliminary preparations of the past few days had awakened suspicion. For one thing, Mr. Grace had repainted his cab: the wheels were a bright mustard and the body was a deep blue—the color which is usually associated with Oxford. For years—too many to count—Cat’s Meat’s harness had done service, tied together with bits of rope and string where the leather had worn out. But to-day his harness was brand new—of a vivid tan. Yesterday, and the day before, Cat’s Meat and his master had indulged in a rest—that alone gave material for conjecture. Grace and her ex-policeman had conjectured. What was the old boy planning? Was he contemplating marriage? “And at his time o’ life!” they said scornfully. At any rate, they were snoring now.
As he led Cat’s Meat out, he growled in his ear, “Not a drop o’ drink, old hoss, till this here is h’ended. And then—-.” He smacked his lips; the lean tail flirted across the bony haunches in assent. Mr. Grace rubbed the nose of his friend, “Go by h’every pub till h’it’s h’ended, old pal, and then——. Understand?”
He had harnessed up and was tying the last of the blue rosettes to Cat’s Meat’s bridle, when he was startled by a window flung up. He glanced round—the curl-papers he dreaded!
“Now, then, father, you just come up ‘ere and tell me. You just——.”
“Be blowed if h’I will.”
The curl-papers vanished; feet were coming down the stairs. Scrambling on to his box, he jerked at the reins and lumbered out into the cold March dusk. A shrill voice calling! She was in the stable, coming down the street after him. What had she on, or rather what hadn’t she? “My word,” he muttered, “wot a persistent hussy!” He cracked his whip. Cat’s Meat broke into a stiff-kneed gallop.
At a cabman’s shelter near Trafalgar Square he halted for breakfast. The glory of his appearance attracted attention. “’Ere comes Elijah in ‘is bloomin’ chariot.”
“Wot-ho, old mustard-pot! ‘Ot stuff!”
Mr. Grace conducted himself with gravity. “I’m h’off ter the races. Got a friend o’ mine rowin’.”