"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."
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--"
Chris nodded.
"And when 'e went down, my last bob went with 'im, but I didn't bear
you no malice, sir, an' I was the first man to get to you. I've done
a bit o' riding in my time, an' I know all about 'ow it feels to get
knocked out, though, thank Gawd, I never got such a 'biff' over the
'ead as that 'orse what was follerin' 'anded yer!"
Chris laughed, and passed his hand carefully over a chestnut mare,
which turned a vicious eye upon him.
"Gently, gel, gently," walking up to her head. "Pity she's so
bad-tempered, isn't it, Scotty?"
"Turnin' sour, that's what _she_ is, though when she does take it
into 'er 'ead to try, she wants some catching, an' no error. It's
them sort as gets innocent men warned off," Scotty concluded
bitterly, having a lively recollection of an interview with the
Stewards in connection with the running of the mare, "though 'Eaving
was witness," as he told the Stewards, "that all parties were
innocent enough, except the jady mare."
Chris chuckled at the memory.
"Haven't forgotten your 'carpeting' yet, then, Scotty? It _was_ bad
luck. I expected them to send for me too, as the trainer. I think I
should have asked one of 'em to ride the mare a few times, to see how
in and out she runs. I've got her in a Selling Hurdle at Wye next
week, and win or lose, she's to be sold--can't afford to keep such a
dangerous customer as that, can we, Scotty?"
"We can _not_," the other agreed with feeling. "A 'orse like that
would break the Bank of England, an' then win a nice race direc'ly
you sold 'er."
The two strolled round all the boxes--Chris had eight horses in his
charge now--and when he had seen them all done up, went in to
breakfast, attended by his dogs, as usual.
No matter in what part of the house he might be, or how long absent,
his faithful escort of three awaited him, eager, loving, full of warm
welcome, and if the fox-terrier, "Copper," were sometimes jealous of
his son "Penny's" accomplished tricks, and Chris had occasionally to
smack them both into good behaviour, "Cypka," the bull-pup, gave him
no trouble whatever, acting, indeed, as foster-mother to the other
two, and occasional peacemaker.
Chris's eye fell on a letter from Gay Lawless among his
correspondence, and his face brightened as he opened it.
"Dear Chris," he read, "I shall be very glad to see you any day for
tea and a chat. I've got the Trotting mania badly, and though I know
it isn't much in your line, I _must_ talk to somebody about it, and
dear old Frank is so difficult to interest on any subject except
science. If you're not racing anywhere, do come in to tea to-morrow
afternoon. Lossie's coming, and I also expect Mr. Mackrell, who
thinks he has found a couple of useful Trotters for me. I am so
anxious to begin.--Yours sincerely,
"GAY LAWLESS."
Chris Hannen digested the news with mixed feelings. "Gay's mad on
Trotting," he thought, "and it's no sort of game for her. Carlton
Mackrell has no business to help her, though, to do him justice,
after what he said the other day, I can't accuse him of aiding and
abetting exactly. He is deadly in earnest about Gay, and he'll have
opportunities enough now, confound him!"
Yet Chris smiled as he folded her letter up, and put it into his
pocket--the breastpocket. "All's fair in love and--racing, I
suppose, whether it's jumping or Trotting."
Mrs. Summers, Chris's housekeeper, came in at that moment, and
interrupted his thoughts, which were somewhat interfering with his
breakfast. She had occupied to Chris the same position as Min
Toplady did to Gay, but in appearance was a direct contrast, for
tall, angular, and determined-looking, she inspired awe in all save
her familiars, who were few.
Her young master was the very apple of her eye, and she strove to
supply the dreadful want in his life caused by the loss of his
mother. Just she and two others knew how terribly he felt that loss,
for his mind was an open book to her, and undemonstrative and
practical as he invariably was, he sometimes dropped a remark that
showed his thoughts were never far away from his sorrow.
"She was my pal," he said once to Gay, "the only real pal I ever had.
I don't think we had any secrets from each other--certainly no guilty
ones, thank God--and now she's gone, I realise bitterly how much more
I might have done to make her happy. She was easily pleased, bless
her, for all she wanted was to be with me, but she never intruded,
and I remember so well how she used to propose something she thought
would please me, and say: 'If you don't mind, lovie?' as though she
thought that perhaps she bored me sometimes." Only Gay, and Mrs.
Summers and Aunt Lavinia knew the tremendous depth of feeling, the
capacity for suffering, that lay under Chris Hannen's easy-going,
bantering ways, and if the housekeeper used all her tact and
kindliness to make up to him, if ever so little, something of what he
had lost, Gay Lawless, who had the clearest possible insight into
people's characters, never made the mistake of volunteering any
sympathy.
She knew Chris hated it, as she did, and appreciated his silent pluck
as much as he did the reserves of courage that had not yet been
called up in herself.
"Good-morning, Master Chris," said Mrs. Summers (he was always Master
Chris to her, never having grown up in her eyes), but her face
assumed a stern expression as she regarded the only half-finished
breakfast.
"No food again this morning? I hope you're not up to them wastin'
tricks again? Wastin' your life, _I_ call it," with a disgusted
sniff.
Chris looked up with a smile.
"Good-morning, Summers," he said. "I hope I see you well? No, I am
not wasting just at present, though there's just a pound or two to
come off before Kempton next week. We shall have another glorious
winner (Chris characterised all winners as glorious) then. Which is
it to be this time, a new bonnet or a dress-length?"
"Gloves this time, Master Chris, and thank you," Mrs. Summers
replied, "though there ain't much chance of showing off any finery in
_this_ place, I'm sure."
"How often has the butcher called this week, Summers?" Chris asked,
with a twinkle in his eye.
Mrs. Summers tossed her head. The butcher was rather a sore point
with her, his name having been coupled with hers by "those impudent
bits of boys," as she designated the stable lads.
"If I hear one of them brats discussing me and my affairs, I'll box
his ears for him soundly," she threatened, "so there!"
"Quite right, Summers, don't you stand it," Chris agreed. "By the
way, I'm going up to town to-day, so don't bother about any dinner
for me."
He walked towards the door, then paused on the threshold to fire a
parting shot. He loved "chipping" people, as he called it, but he
would have cut off his right hand rather than wilfully hurt anyone's
feelings.
"If the butcher _does_ call to-day by any chance, Summers, there are
no orders, you know," he said with a grave face, then raced off into
his study before the enraged but complacent housekeeper could reply.
"What a boy it is!" she said to herself as she cleared away, "always
laughin' and having a joke about something, bless his heart! I'm
sure I'd rather see him like that a thousand times, than sitting so
quiet as he does sometimes, looking straight in front of him at
nothing like, though _I_ know well enough what he sees, and who he's
thinking about, poor, lonely boy. I wonder if he'll ever marry that
Miss Gay Lawless, whose photograph he looks at so often? If only
she'll make him half as happy as he deserves to be," she concluded,
as she left the room with her tray.
Curiously enough, that was the very question that Chris was asking
himself, as he stood in his study gazing at Gay's photograph, though
it was not of his own happiness he was thinking at that moment, but
of hers--for that was Chris's way.