CHAPTER IV
"A RACING MAN"
Right on the top of Epsom Downs, and "far from the madding crowd," as he expressed it, was Chris Hannen's training stable.
A pretty red-and-white house, gabled, with old-fashioned diamond-paned windows, it stood at the top of a lawn (on which in the summer Chris played sundry hard sets of tennis to keep himself fit), surrounded by trees which served as a protection from the prevailing winds in the winter.
So keen and pure, indeed, was the air on the Downs, that when he took the house, Chris renamed it "The Breezes," and as a training centre the position was ideal. Immediately outside the front gate were the Downs to gallop over, while behind the house was a spacious schooling-ground, with fac-similes of all the fences to be met with on a race-course.
They were always kept stiffly built-up, too, for it was a sound maxim of Chris's never to allow his horses to get slovenly in their jumping, through being practised over weak fences. He knew from experience that horses so indulged were very apt to "chance" their fences in public, and races were not won under such conditions. Therefore every attention was paid to his schooling-ground, and the percentage of winners turned out from the little stable was wonderful considering the strength of it, and bore testimony to the painstaking way in which they were prepared.
Chris owed much of his success to a knowledge of the art of placing his horses where they could perform to the best advantage. He sometimes had a difficulty in persuading the owner of a bad horse that he would never win the Grand National with it, and on one or two occasions, having done his best with hopeless cases, their owners had removed them to another trainer, only to discover the truth of Chris's judgment, and the folly of incurring further expense in vain attempts to win races.
Chris regarded an increase in his horses with satisfaction, and a decrease with equanimity. He was not dependent upon training horses for a living, for he had a private income of a few hundreds a year, and after a couple of years in the Army had gone in for it more as a hobby to which he was devoted, than anything else. He generally had three or four horses of his own at Epsom, and an equal number of his friends', but never more than ten or twelve in his stables at most, as he was of opinion that a man could not do justice to a greater number, studying each individually, and becoming acquainted with their peculiarities, often very useful knowledge when riding them in public.
It was regarded as a privilege to have a horse or two with Chris, for an owner always felt assured that they could not be in more competent hands, and the amateur's independent position precluded the possibility of a horse being run to suit the stable rather than the owner.
Chris's popularity with both sexes was general, and occasionally he had a horse belonging to a sporting member of the fair sex. He found it hard sometimes to convince the latter that her horse was not within some stones of the Sandown Grand Annual Steeplechase form, and he was strong in his refusal to encourage useless waste of money in travelling expenses. He had incurred the momentary displeasure of a lady with sporting ambitions by informing her that, after many experiments, he was forced to the conclusion that her horse could not win a saddle and bridle at a country fair, if a decent proportion of the other runners were trying, but no one was ever angry with Chris for long. His imperturbable good temper and quaint humour invariably came to the rescue, and his opinion on the merits or otherwise of a horse was consistently borne out.
"I am unlikely to entertain an angel unawares," he once said to a disappointed owner, "and it is my custom to give every horse more than one chance. But, on the other hand, it is not my practice to keep horses belonging to other people in my stable when I know they are worthless. I do not keep 'stumers' myself for longer than I can help, though I'm pleased to say I do not often buy them either, so why should I delude other people into doing so? Your horse, my dear sir, would be better employed in some less ambitious sphere than a race-course, and, without wishing to hurt your feelings—and they are very sore, I know, when the brutal truth is driven home by a sympathetic but conscientious outsider—I would suggest that you cut your losses, and send him up to Tattersall's as a light-weight hunter for a galloping country like Leicestershire. There are many ten-stone hunting men who love a bit of blood to chase a fox upon, and your horse is at least sound."