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Updated: June 10, 2025
He was indifferent to the fact that Chifney was harsh, the horses testy or wicked, that the boys' noses were red, and that they blew their purple fingers before laying hold of the reins in a vain attempt to promote circulation.
"We won't swear, Mr. Chifney," she remarked mildly now. "Swear! It's enough to make the whole bench of bishops swear to see that lad." "I did see him," Mrs. Chifney observed. "Yes, out of window. But you didn't carry him round, and hear him talk knowledgeable talk as you could ask from one of his age. And watch his face as like as two peas to his father's." "But her ladyship's eyes," put in Mrs.
One who expressed his Oriental experiences in an epic of fresh and thrilling sensations has written, "If a man be not born of his mother with a natural Chifney bit in his mouth, there comes to him a time for loathing the wearisome ways of society, a time for not liking tamed people, a time for not dancing quadrilles, a time for pretending that Milton, and Shelley, and all sorts of mere dead people are greater in death than the first living lord of the treasury, a time, in short, for scoffing and railing, for speaking lightly of the opera, and all our most cherished institutions.
Lastly, Julius did his utmost to exercise an influence for good over the twenty and odd boys at the racing stables an unpromising generation at best, the majority of whom, he feared, accepted his efforts for their moral and spiritual welfare with the same somewhat brutish philosophy with which they accepted Tom Chifney, the trainer's, rough-and-ready system of discipline, and the thousand and one vagaries of the fine-limbed, queer-tempered horses which were at once the glory and torment of their young lives.
Chifney delivered himself of certain orders; while Appleyard a small, fair man, thin of nose, a spot of violent colour on either cheek-bone skipped before him goat-like, in a fury of complacent intelligence. For it was not every day so notable a personage as the Brockhurst trainer crossed his threshold.
Lazy, pinched with cold by the raw morning air, still a bit hungry, sick even, or downright frightened, they must mount and away the long line of race-horses streaming, in single file, up the hillside to the exercising ground with as short delay as possible, or Mr. Chifney and his ash stick would know the reason why.
A deluge, and the course would be a quagmire, and strength might baffle speed. Another flash, another explosion, the hissing noise of rain. Lord Milford moved aside, and jealous of the eye of another, read a letter from Chifney, and in a few minutes afterwards offered to take the odds against Pocket Hercules.
Chifney and Preiston the head-lad hurried them, shouting orders, admonishing, inciting to greater rapidity of action. And the boys were sulky. The thick morning had promoted hopes of an hour or two of unwonted idleness. Now those poor, little hopes were summarily blighted.
Yet what more natural, after all, than that he should have set his affections on the Clown? Chifney believed in the horse too a five-year-old brother of Touchstone, resembling, in his black-brown skin and intelligent, white-reach face, that celebrated horse; and inheriting less enviable distinction the high shoulders and withers of his sire Camel.
Oh! that cursed slip and fall, that struggling, plunging, frenzied horse! And how the horse had plunged and struggled, good God! It seemed as though Chifney, the grooms, all of them, would never get hold of it or draw Richard out from beneath the pounding hoofs. And then Ormiston went over his own share in the business again, lamenting, blaming himself.
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