Mrs. Thompson. W. B. Maxwell

      "I am quite aware of your rules," said Mr. Whitehouse curtly. "But the lesson is finished.... That will be sufficient, Miss Thompson. Three minutes over your hour—and we don't want to tire you."

      Mr. Young snorted angrily, and disappeared. The strange young man assisted Miss Enid to dismount and went out with her, the bandaged mare following them with the helper.

      "Who," asked Marsden, "was that spindle-shanked ass?"

      "Oh, he's not a bad boy," said the riding-master patronisingly. "And he can ride, mind you—which is more than most hunting men can."

      "Is he a hunting man? What's his name?"

      "Mr. Kenion.... Look here, don't hurry off. I want to have a yarn with you."

      "But Mr. Young—"

      "Oh, blast Mr. Young. I want to talk to you, my boy, about the ladies."

      "Do you?" Marsden half closed his eyes, and showed his strong teeth in a lazy smile. "What do you think of our young lady?"

      "Miss Thompson?" Mr. Whitehouse shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, not bad."

      Then long thin Mr. Kenion returned.

      "Let's try the new crock over your sticks," said Mr. Kenion languidly. "I suppose he is a crock—or he wouldn't be here?"

      "I won't bias your judgment," said Mr. Whitehouse as he strolled across the tan. "See for yourself," and he rang a noisy bell. "But I must make you known to each other;" and he introduced Mr. Marsden as "one of the managers at Thompson's."

      Mr. Young's new purchase was brought in, and Mr. Kenion rode it. The horse at first appeared to resent the silly jumping performance; but Marsden heard the work of the rider's unspurred heels on the animal's flanks, watched the effective use Mr. Whitehouse made of his whip as he ran behind, and soon saw the hurdle negotiated in flying fashion, again and again—and faster and faster.

      "Not so fast! God bless my soul, I think you must all be mad this afternoon." Old Young had come to his window, furious. "Mr. Kenion, I'm surprised at you, yes, I am, sir."

      "How can I judge of a horse without trying him?"

      "Well, I don't want my horses tried like that. You may buy 'em or leave 'em."

      "All right," said Mr. Kenion, laughing. "Come out and have a drink. You've stood me a ride, and I'll stand you a drink."

      Mr. Kenion, Mr. Young, and the jumping horse all disappeared, and Marsden and the riding-master were left together on the tan. Here, in the dim twilight that the glass roof made of this bright June day, they had a long quiet chat about women.

      "Dicky," said the riding-master, "I'm going to talk to you like a Dutch uncle."

      "Fire away."

      "All for your own good. See?... Now I suppose when you want a mash, you don't think of looking outside the shop."

      "I never have a mash inside it."

      "Is that so?" Mr. Whitehouse seemed astonished. "Why, I thought you smart managers with all those shop girls round you were like so many grand Turks with their serrallyhos."

      "Not much. That's against etiquette—and a fool's game into the bargain. You're safe to be pinched—and, second, you get so jolly sick of being mewed up with 'em all day that you never want to speak to 'em out of hours."

      "Then how do you get along? The customers?"

      "Yes," said Marsden; and he stroked his moustache, and smiled. "Customers are often very kind."

      "Not real ladies?"

      "We don't ask their pedigrees. Go down St. Saviour's Court any fine evening, and see the domestic servants waiting in their best clothes. It'll remind you of Piccadilly Circus;" and both gentlemen laughed.

      "There's a parlourmaid," continued Marsden, "out of Adelaide Crescent—who is simply a little lump of all right. Venetian red hair—a picture."

      "Red hair," said Mr. Whitehouse reflectively. "They say with us, a good horse has no colour. That means, if the horse is a good 'un, never mind his colour;—and I suppose it's true of women.... I don't object to chestnut horses—or red-haired gells.... But, look here, Master Dick, I tell you frank, you're wasting your opportunities."

      "You can't teach me anything, old man."

      "Can't I? Never turn a deaf ear to a friendly tip—a chance tip may alter a man's life. That's a motto with me—and I'm acting on it this moment, myself."

      Then Mr. Whitehouse told his friend that he was about to leave Mallingbridge forever. Mallingbridge was too small; he intended to throw himself into the larger world of London. He had very nearly fixed up an engagement with the big Bayswater people; it was practically a settled thing.

      "That's why I checked the old bloke like I done just now. Mr. Young he twigs there's something up; but he doesn't know what's in store for him. The minute I've got my job definite, I shall open my chest to him—tell him once for all what I think of him. 'E won't forget it;" and the riding-master laughed confidently.

      "I'm sorry you're going."

      "Thanks. But why am I lighting out so determined and sudden, instead of vegetating here half me life? Well—because I got a straight tip, and all by chance."

      "How was that?"

      "About a month ago a chap comes in here with a lady for a lesson. Captain Mellish—Meller—I forget the name. Anyhow, he was a son of a gun of a swell to look at—sploshing it about up at the Dolphin; and he brings in this actress from the theatre—not a chorus gell, mind you, but the leading performer—who was drawing her hundred quid a week, so they said. Well, he evidently fancied he was a bit of a horseman himself, and he keeps chipping in. When I told her to get her hands back, and hold her reins long, he says, 'yes, but you'll want to hold a horse shorter by the head, if he balks at his fences.' I answered without hesitation, 'I'm very well aware of refusing horses,' I said, 'and also how easy it is to hang on by a horse's mouth when you land over a fence.... But,' I said, 'let me know who is giving the lesson—you or me. Wait, miss,' I said, 'if the Captain has other directions to give you.' She rounded on him at once, asking him to shut his head. He turned it off with a laugh, and gave me a slap on the back. 'Have it your own way, Mr. Riding-Master.' You'll understand, he said that sneering.

      "But I believe he thought the more of me before the lesson was over. Anyhow, when his tart had gone to the dressing-room to change her things, he and I got yarning here—exactly as if it had been you and me—like we're doing now.

      "Mind you, he was a wrong 'un. You couldn't talk friendly to him without twigging that. But, Holy Moses, he was fairly up to snuff.... We went yarning on, and presently he says, 'It beats me why a knowledgeable young chap like you should bury himself as a mere servant. Take my tip,' he says, 'Get hold of a bit of money, and light out on your own.'... 'And how am I to get the money?' I asked him.

      "'Get it from the ladies,' he says. 'Take my tip. I suppose you make love to all your pupils—you fellows always do. Well, make 'em pay.' I'm giving you what he said, word for word. 'You're wasting yourself,' he says. 'See? You're only young once. You've got something to bring to market, and you're letting it go stale every hour.'

      "Then he run on about what women can do for a man nowadays—and he knew, mind you. He'd been there. Who makes the members of parliament, the bishops, the prime ministers? Why, women. Leave them out of your plans—if you want to labour in the sweat of your brow till you drop. But if not, take the tip. It's the women that give a man his short-cut to ease and comfort. See?"

      "Yes," said Mr. Marsden. "I see that—but I don't see anything new in it."

      "Dicky," said Mr. Whitehouse solemnly, "it's a straight tip.... But you'll never profit by it, my boy, until you stop messing about with your dressed-up slaveys, and light out for something bigger."

      "I have told you,"