“No, sir.  When he was young and winning stakes it seemed different.  I tell you what, we’ll all pay a dollar a cake for soap made out ’er old Cuddy.”

“There’ll be no soap made out of old Cuddy,” Gething interrupted him, “I’ll ride him out—­up to the top of Break-Neck Hill and shoot him there.  You’d better begin the trench by noon.  When it’s dug I’ll take him to the top and——­”

“But nobody’s been on his back since your father said it was useless to try to make him over.  Too old for steeplechasing and too much the racer for anything else, and too much the devil to keep for a suvnor.”

“Well, I’ll ride him once again.”

“But, Mr. Geth, he’s just been standing in his box or the paddock for four weeks now.  We’ve been waiting for you to say when he was to be shot.  He’s in a sweet temper and d’ y’er know, I think, I do——­”

“What do you think?” Willet blushed purple.

“I think Cuddy’s got something in his head, some plan if he gets out.  I think he wants to kill some one before he dies.  Yes, sir, kill him.  And you know if he gets the start of you there is no stopping the dirty devil.”

“Yes, he does tear a bit,” Geth admitted.  “But I never was on a surer jumper.  Lord!  How the old horse can lift you!” Gething dropped into a disconsolate silence, interrupted before long by Willet.

“Happiness will get Cuddy’s box—­she’s in a stall.  Cuddy was always mean to her—­used to go out of his way to kick her—­and she, sweet as a kitten.”

“So you’ll give her his box in revenge?”

“Revenge?  Oh, no sir.  Just common sense.”  Any thought of a sentimental revenge was distasteful to the trainer, but he was glad that good Happiness should get his box and disappointed about the soap.  It would have lent relish to his somewhat perfunctory washings to say to himself, “Doubtless this here bit of soap is a piece of old Cuddy.”

“How long will the trench take?”

“A good bit of time, sir.  Cuddy isn’t no kitten we’re laying by.  I’ll put them gardeners on the job—­with your permission—­and they know how to shovel.  You’ll want an old saddle on him?”

“No, no, the one I’ve raced him in, number twelve, and his old bridle with the chain bit.”

“Well, well,” said Willet rubbing his veiny nose.

He considered the horse unworthy of any distinction, but in his desire to please Geth, took pains to prepare Cuddy for his death and burial.  Gething was still at the big house although it was four o’clock and the men on Break-Neck Hill were busy with their digging.  Willet called them the sextons.

“And we, Joey,” he addressed a stable boy, “we’re the undertakers.  Handsome corpse, what?” Cuddy stood in the centre of the barn floor fastened to be groomed.  He was handsome, built on the cleanest lines of speed and strength, lean as an anatomical study, perfect for his type.  The depth of chest made his legs, neck, and head look fragile.  His face was unusually beautiful—­the white-starred face which had been before Geth’s eyes as he had sat in Holly Park.  His pricked ears strained to hear, his eyes to see.  The men working over him were beneath his notice.