It became his diversion, by
means of the pantomime that had so successfully deceived me--by
dramatically shooting out his wrist, consulting his watch, instantly
stepping out and presently breaking into a run--to induce any gentleman
behind him who had reached an age when the fear of missing trains has
become an obsession to accelerate his progress.
"It is amazing," he said, "how many knots you can get out of the veriest
old tubs. This morning, for instance, Flyaway has taken only a little over
six minutes to cover seven furlongs. That's the best I have got out of him
so far, but I hope to do better with some of the others."
"You keep more than one in training?" I questioned.
"Several. If you like I will hand some over to you. Or, better still," he
added, "you might prefer to start a stable of your own. That would
introduce an element of competition. What about it?"
I accepted with alacrity. The very next day I made a start, and within a
week I had a team of my own in training. The walk to the station, which
formerly had been the blackest hour of the twenty-four, I now looked
forward to with the liveliest impatience. Every morning saw me early on the
road, ready to loiter until I found in my wake some merchant sedately
making his way stationwards to whom I could set the pace. I always took
care, however, not to race the same one too frequently or at too regular
intervals, and I take occasion to impress this caution on beginners.
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