In build Mat was very short, and very broad; and his legs were so thin that it was no wonder they were somewhat bowed beneath their load.  Far back in the Dark Ages, when his body was more on a par with his legs, it was rumoured that Mat had himself won hunt-races.

“Then my body went on, or rayther spread out,” he would tell his intimates, “while me legs stayed where they was.  So Mat become a trainer ’stead of a jockey.”

And Mat’s legs were not the only part of him that had stayed as they were in those remote days.  He wore the same clothes now as then; or if not the identical clothes, as many averred, clothes of the identical cut.  Younger trainers, who were fond of having their joke with the old man, would often inquire of him,

“Who’s your tailor, Mat?”

To which the invariable answer in the familiar wheeze was,

“He died reign o’ William the Fo’th, my son.  Don’t you wish he’d lived to show your Snips how to cut a coat?”

Mat indeed was distinctly early Victorian in his dress.  He always wore a stock instead of a tie, and the felt hat with a flat top and broad-curled brim, which a rising young Radical statesman, for whom Mat had once trained, had imitated.  He walked with a curious and characteristic lilt, as of a boy, rising on his toes as though reaching after heaven.  And his eye underlined, as it were, the mischievous gaiety of his walk.  It was a baffling eye:  bright, blue, merry as a robin’s and very shrewd; “the eye of a cherubim,” Mat once described it himself.  When it turned on you, grave yet twinkling, you knew that it summed you up, saw through you, was aware of your wickedness, condoned it, pitied you, comforted you, and bade you rejoice in the world and its crooked ways.  It was an innocent eye, a dewy eye, and yet a mighty knowing one.  Whether the owner of the eye was a saint or a sinner you could not affirm.  Therefore it bade you beware what you said, what you did, and not least, what you thought, while its mild yet radiant beams were turned upon you.  One thing was quite certain:  that blue eye had seen a great deal.  More, it had enjoyed the seeing.  And its owner had a way of wiping it as he ended some tale of rascality, successful or exposed, with his habitual cliche—­“I wep a tear.  I did reelly,” which made you realize that the only tears it had in fact ever wept were in truth tears of suppressed laughter over the foolishness of mortals.  It had never mourned over a lost sinner, though it had often winked over one.  And it had profound and impenetrable reserves.

And the trainer’s ups and downs in life, if all the stories were true, had been amazing.  At one time it was said that he was worth a cool L100,000, and at another a minus quantity.  But rich or poor, he never changed his life by an iota, jogging soberly along his appointed if somewhat tortuous way.