saw almost as little as she did of the people upstairs. He passed along
the passages or remained shut up in his pantry. Ginger used to go there to
smoke; and when the door stood ajar Esther saw his narrow person seated on
the edge of the table, his leg swinging. Among the pantry people Mr.
Leopold's erudition was a constant subject of admiration. His
reminiscences of the races of thirty years ago were full of interest; he
had seen the great horses whose names live in the stud-book, the horses
the Gaffer had owned, had trained, had ridden, and he was full of anecdote
concerning them and the Gaffer. Praise of his father's horsemanship always
caused a cloud to gather on Ginger's face, and when he left the pantry
Swindles chuckled. "Whenever I wants to get a rise out of Ginger I says,
'Ah, we shall never see another gentleman jock who can use the whip at a
finish like the Governor in his best days.'"

Everyone delighted in the pantry, and to make Mr. Leopold comfortable Mr.
Swindles used to bring in the wolf-skin rug that went out with the
carriage, and wrap it round Mr. Leopold's wooden armchair, and the sallow
little man would curl himself up, and, smoking his long clay, discuss the
weights of the next big handicap. If Ginger contradicted him he would go
to the press and extract from its obscurity a package of _Bell's Life_ or
a file of the _Sportsman_.

Mr. Leopold's press! For forty years no one had looked into that press.
Mr. Leopold guarded it from every gaze, but it seemed to be a much-varied
repository from which, if he chose, he could produce almost any trifle
that might be required. It seemed to combine the usefulness of a hardware
shop and a drug store.

The pantry had its etiquette and its discipline. Jockey boys were rarely
admitted, unless with the intention of securing their services for the