state of mind which is the proud objective of every Englishman, and
especially of every country gentleman. In a word--a mother to the
self-reliant secretiveness which defies intrusion and forms an integral
part in the Christianity of this country--Newmarket Heath is beyond all
others the happy hunting-ground of the landed classes.

In the Paddock half an hour before the Rutlandshire Handicap was to
be run numbers of racing-men were gathered in little knots of two and
three, describing to each other with every precaution the points of
strength in the horses they had laid against, the points of weakness
in the horses they had backed, or vice versa, together with the latest
discrepancies of their trainers and jockeys. At the far end George
Pendyce, his trainer Blacksmith, and his jockey Swells, were talking in
low tones. Many people have observed with surprise the close-buttoned
secrecy of all who have to do with horses. It is no matter for wonder.
The horse is one of those generous and somewhat careless animals that,
if not taken firmly from the first, will surely give itself away.
Essential to a man who has to do with horses is a complete closeness of
physiognomy, otherwise the animal will never know what is expected of
him. The more that is expected of him, the closer must be the expression
of his friends, or a grave fiasco may have to be deplored.

It was for these reasons that George's face wore more than its habitual
composure, and the faces of his trainer and his jockey were alert,
determined, and expressionless. Blacksmith, a little man, had in his
hand a short notched cane, with which, contrary to expectation, he did
not switch his legs. His eyelids drooped over his shrewd eyes, his upper
lip advanced over the lower, and he wore no hair on his face. The Jockey
Swells' pinched-up countenance, with jutting eyebrows and practically
no cheeks, had under George's racing-cap of "peacock blue" a subfusc hue