“Come for another 'tip,' eh, Master Walter?” whispered he good-naturedly as he led the way into the house. “You see I did not deceive you the last time you were here about _Cambyses!_”
“No, indeed, you did not, Mr Chifney” (Walter never addressed this friend of his without the Mister), “and a very great blessing it was to yours thankfully at a time when he was even more hard-up than usual. Is your Derby 'crack' visible today? I am poor, but honest. I have no motive beyond that of curiosity, and if suspected of a concealed weapon, will submit to be searched.”
“Well, Master Walter,” grinned the trainer, “I can't say that I much credit the honesty of anybody myself; but I don't see why you should not have a look at his majesty, particularly as there is one coming here this morning already upon the same errand, and I'm sure I'd as soon oblige you as him--or, indeed, as any man, let it be who it will.”
“You are very kind to say so, Mr Chifney, and still more to mean it, as I am sure you do; but I feel that I have no right with my bagatelle of a stake depending upon the matter to take up your time--nay, I must insist upon throwing my cigar away before entering your house; it is all very well for Mrs Chifney to give _you_ the privilege of smoking within doors, but I could not venture to take such a liberty myself. What a jolly place this is of yours; I always think it is so much snugger than the Abbey. I should never sit anywhere but in your grand old kitchen, if I were you.”
“Well, the fact is we _do_ sit a good deal in the kitchen,” returned Mr Chifney reddening. “It's warm, you see, although it's large, and my wife likes to see how things are going on. She's engaged there just at present, and--you're a great favourite of hers; but I would recommend you to step in as you _go out_, instead of now. A queer thing is woman, Master Walter, and no man can tell how queer till he comes to be married! Young gals is all sweetness and easily cajoled; but wives--O lor! Now, it's exactly different with horseflesh, for the brood-mares one _can_ manage with a little care, and it's only the fillies that give us trouble, and have such tempers of their own. There; that's a Derby nag, _Blue Ruin_, in the cloths yonder, and I believe the Duke would not sell him for three thousand pounds; but I have told His Grace, as I tell you, that I wouldn't back the horse even for a place.”