The large man shifted the reins and drank, in turn, tilting up a face whose jaw still struggled to assert itself against chins and neck.
“Well, here’s to your bloomin’ horse,” he said. “She can’t win the Derby now, but she may do us a bit of good yet.”
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.”