On this particular day the morning's work was over, and Chris and his head lad, (who was universally and impartially known as Scotty, though the presumption was that he had been christened something else originally) were standing in the box of a horse, looking on while he was being dressed down, and discussing the results of a trial from which he had lately emerged triumphantly.
"It makes the 'andicap Steeple at Kempton look pretty good for 'im, sir," the head lad was saying; "'e showed up well the first time we tried 'im, an' there can be no mistake this time either, with old Evergreen in the gallop. 'E's a wonderful good trial 'oss, an' I never expected the young 'un to give 'im weight and a clever beatin'.'"
Chris agreed.
"I'm very pleased with him," he said; "the further he went, the better he seemed to like it. Of course, we shall be meeting something at Kempton—especially if Muscateer runs—but whatever beats us will win, I think."
"It's good enough for my money," Scotty announced, "an' if you take my advice you'll 'elp yourself properly w'en they begin bettin'."
Chris laughed as they left the box, and walked into another.
"I believe you make it a point of honour to back anything that runs from here," he said.
"Not exactly so bad as that, sir," the head lad demurred, "but any'ow it's paid well up to now."
"Yes, we've been pretty lucky," said Chris.
"Luckier than you was the first time I saw you, sir," said the head lad significantly. "You was on yer back in the h'ambulance at Sandown Pawk, and you wasn't 'arf 'outed,' neither. I was down at the fence where you 'came it'—I always goes out into the course when they're 'lepping,' you know, sir," he explained. "I like to see what they're a-doin' of round the far side, an' when the Stewards is at lunch, or 'arf-way back to London before the last race is run. I see your 'orse fall—old Blow'ard it was, sir—"