The stable lads from the training
stables far up on the Downs drop in or call at the door without
dismounting. Once or twice in the day a tout calls and takes his 'grub,'
and scribbles a report in the little back parlour. Sporting papers,
beer-stained and thumb-marked, lie on the tables; framed portraits of
racers hang on the walls. Burly men, who certainly cannot ride a race,
but who have horse in every feature, puff cigars and chat in jerky
monosyllables that to an outsider are perfectly incomprehensible. But
the glib way in which heavy sums of money are spoken of conveys the
impression that they dabble in enormous wealth.
There are dogs under the tables and chairs; dogs in the window-seat;
dogs panting on the stone flags of the passage, after a sharp trot
behind a trap, choosing the coolest spot to loll their red tongues out;
dogs outside in the road; dogs standing on hind legs, and painfully
lapping the water in the horse-trough; and there is a yapping of puppies
in the distance. The cushions of the sofa are strewn with dogs' hairs,
and once now and then a dog leisurely hops up the staircase.
Customers are served by the landlady, a decent body enough in her way:
her son, the man of the house, is up in the 'orchut' at the rear,
feeding his dogs. Where the 'orchut' ends in a paddock stands a small
shed: in places the thatch on the roof has fallen through in the course
of years and revealed the bare rafters.
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