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supervised the place, and did everything save write and telephone owners and track officials. Yet although he had been there nearly a month, Jack received no bill. To anyone used to American methods the friendly, casual procedure was unsettling.
    As they went into the fifth week he spoke to the trainer. “Mr. Robinson, as you know, I haven’t unlimited funds and need to watch things. Perhaps you’d arrange with your wife to tell me just how I stand at the end of the month.”
    The trainer took this request in his stride. “Oh yes, your bill, by all means. Violet tends to them, but with one thing or another she does get behind a bit at times. Sorry about that. I’ll see you get your monthly statement tomorrow.”
    The next morning at breakfast Cobb observed a large, square, brown envelope beside his plate. The kitchen at the Hall, a huge oblong room, faced due east and consequently was flooded with sunlight—when there was any. It had great rows of copper pots and pans hung on the wall opposite the table at which the stable lads sat, wolfing their meal. Two Purdy guns hung on brackets; there were a dozen sporting prints around the room. Jack sipped his coffee, made for him by Violet Robinson; although he drank the muddy Mississippi they called tea in the afternoon, he preferred coffee in the morning. He watched the tea being made. Great handfuls were tossed into a boiler kind of affair, which once emptied was filled with more boiling water again and again.
    Cobb stuffed the envelope in his pocket and after breakfast walked down the lane to what Robinsons called his “digs.” The bill seemed an imposing document. Everything he owed was detailed in a square, legible British handwriting. The fees of the vet were included, and there was an extra or two, such as rent for gallops on the Downs, plus his extra breakfasts at the Hall, plus the boarding fees for Quicksilver. The total amounted to about $650. He did some quick figuring. His money would not last forever, but it should carry into the spring and the National in April. Especially if he picked up some additional by winning a race or two.
    A second thing that bothered Cobb was that, although Chester was easy and approachable, he seldom commented upon the horse. Cobb’s life was centered now upon the animal, and he knew that Quicksilver had been over the fences hardly more than a dozen times since his arrival. True, the horse seemed fitter and had never looked better. Yet a doubt lingered in Cobb’s mind.
    Finally he consulted Robinson. “Tell me frankly how you feel the horse is getting on. Has he thoroughly recovered from that bout of colic?”
    They were in the living room of the Hall. Chester lit a cigarette and tossed the match into the big fireplace. His legs wide apart, he stood facing Jack, who sat in a large chair.
    “Very happy you asked the question. The fact is, I’m pleased with your horse’s condition. You may feel we don’t push the stock here. We don’t. I always felt that my father worked his racers so hard that they left too much behind and did badly in competition. I train on the theory that a horse needs stamina to race, and I go light on training. No doubt you’re amazed we don’t give your horse more jumping?”
    He’s reading my mind, thought Jack. “Why, yes, I’m a little surprised.”
    “I quite understand, but there’s a reason. Quicksilver has been properly trained to jump, and it shows. He doesn’t need a lot of schooling. He just has to get used to our English fences. Is that clear?”
    It was. Meanwhile, the horse took to the twice-a-day work ride, to English oats, and to the unusual spell of sunny weather along the coast. Then one morning Robinson surprised Cobb by declaring that he was entering Quicksilver at a small race at Windsor the next week, stating that he needed a good workout over English hurdles. The news astonished Cobb. Was the horse ready for racing? Had the vet been consulted? At any rate, the decision was up