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Updated: June 10, 2025
The leading horse was just moving off the main road, its shadow lying long across the turf. How was it possible to give way with the prize within reach? "You can go or stay Chaplin, as you please. I mean to speak to Chifney. I I mean to see the stables." "It's as much as my place is worth, sir." "Oh! bother your place!" the boy cried impetuously.
He paused. "What about the Clown?" "Only that I should be glad if you would tell Chifney he must find some other horse to lead the gallops." Ormiston turned his head. "I see you wish the horse sold," he said, over his shoulder. Katherine looked down at the sleeping baby, its round head, crowned by that delicious crest of silky hair, cuddled in against her breast.
Chifney, I believe I could manage a second helping of that game pie, his face was like a very angel's from heaven. Unearthly beautiful, Thomas, and yet a sort of pain at the back of it. It gave me a regular turn. I had to shed a few tears afterwards when I got alone by myself."
"I'm thinking, by the curous made creeturs 'e sends along sometimes." "Chifney," Richard called imperatively. "Chifney, are you nearly ready? We ought to get home. There's a storm coming up." "Well, we shall get that matter of the saddle done right enough, Sir Richard," the trainer remarked presently, as the carriage bowled up the street. "Don't be too free with the whip, sir.
Chifney could hardly be expected to recognise the existence of a man in livery standing at a pony's head, still less to accept direction from such a person. Servants must be kept in their place impudent, lazy enough lot anyhow, bless you! On his feet the trainer had been known to decline to moments of weakness.
Chifney, sitting beside him on the big, white-painted cornbin opposite Diplomacy's loose-box, began to tell him of the old times when he a little fellow of eight to ten years of age had been among the boys in his cousin, Sam Chifney's famous stable at Newmarket.
Men and horses alike, it's breeding that tells when it comes to the push. You know that, eh, Chifney?" In the red drawing-room, where the drama of this sad night centred, Roger Ormiston had dropped into a chair by the fireside, his head sunk on his chest and his hands thrust into his pockets. He was very tired, very miserable.
"No, no, my beloved, you shall ride," she said. "You shall have your saddle twenty thousand saddles if you want them. We will talk to Uncle Roger and Chifney to-night. All shall be as you wish." "But you're not angry, mother, any more?" he asked, a little bewildered by her change of tone and by the passion of her lovely looks and speech.
And Dickie was happy too, and blessed the exercise, the food, and the society of these simple persons, which, after his evil night, seemed to have restored to him his wiser and better self. "He always was the noblest looking young gentleman I ever saw," Mrs. Chifney remarked subsequently to her husband. "But here at breakfast this morning, when he said, 'If you won't be shocked, Mrs.
At last, losing all patience, Sarah declared that she didn't care what Chifney had said when he just managed to squeeze his horse's head in front in the last dozen yards, she wanted to know what the Demon had done to so nearly lose the race had he mistaken the winning-post and pulled up? William looked at her contemptuously, and would have answered rudely, but at that moment Mr.
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