In the train on the way to the City Piggott and I would compare notes,
carefully recording distances and times, and scoring points in my favour or
his. It would have been better perhaps had we contented ourselves with this
modest programme. Others will take warning from what befell. But with the
ambition of inexperience I suggested we should race two competitors one
against the other, and Piggott let himself be overpersuaded.
I entered my "Speedwell," a prominent stockjobber. Handicapped by the frame
of a _Falstaff_, he happily harbours within his girth a susceptibility to
panic, which, when appropriately stimulated, more than compensates for his
excess of bulk. The distance fixed was from the Green Man to the station, a
five-furlong scamper; the start to be by mutual consent.
Immediately on our interchange of signals I got my nominee in motion. This
is one of Speedwell's best points: he responds instantly to the least sign,
to the slightest touch of the spur, so to speak. Another is staying power.
Before we had gone fifty yards I had got him into an ungainly amble, which
he can keep up indefinitely. Though never rapid, it devours the ground.
Piggott was not so lucky. At the last minute he substituted for the more
reliable Flyaway his Tiny Tim, a dapper little solicitor, not more than
sixty, who to the timorousness of the hare unites some of her speed. In
fact, in his excess of terror he sometimes runs himself to a standstill
before the completion of the course.
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