Brown pools of water reflected a blue radiant sky
through blossoming branches. Gething subsided on a bench well
removed from the children and nurse maids. First he glanced at the
corner of Holly Street and the Boulevard where a man from his
father's racing stable would meet him with his horse. His face, his
figure, his alert bearing, even his clothes promised a horse-man.
The way his stirrups had worn his boots would class him as a rider.
He rode with his foot "through" as the hunter, steeple chaser, and
polo-player do--not on the ball of his foot in park fashion.
He pulled off his hat and ran his hand over his close-cropped head.
Evidently he was still thinking. Across his face the look of pain
ebbed and returned, then he grew impatient. His wrist-watch showed
him his horse was late and he was in a hurry to be started, for what
must be done had best be done quickly. Done quickly and forgotten,
then he could give his attention to the other horses. There was
Happiness--an hysterical child, and Goblin, who needed training over
water jumps, and Sans Souci, whose lame leg should be cocained to
locate the trouble--all of his father's stable of great thoroughbreds
needed something except Cuddy, who waited only for the bullet.
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