“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.