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Full text of "TheCompleteMemoirsOfGeorgeSherston"

In a hasty parenthesis she confessed that she had
given the tin to Dixon only a week or two ago, so 1
transferred myself and my grimy pads to the harness
room, where I discovered Dixon putting the finishing
touches to his white cricket boots; he had already
cleaned mine, and he apologized for not having done
my pads, as he had been unable to find them. While I
busied myself with dabbing and smearing the pads
we had a nice chat about county cricket; he also told
me how he had taken a "highly commended" at the
Crystal Palace Dog Show with one of the smooth-
haired collies which he had recently begun breeding.
There had been a lull in his horse-buying activities
after I went to school; since then I had given up my
riding, as my aunt could not afford to keep a cob
specially for me to ride in the holidays. So Dixon
had consoled himself with his collies and village
cricket: and the saddles were only used when lie
was exercising the sedate horse which now shared
the carriage work with the smart little pony
Rocket.

Leaving my pads to dry in the sun, I sauntered
contentedly back to the house to have a squint at the
morning paper, which never arrived until after break-
fast. I had a private reason for wanting to look at t!he
Morning Post. I was a firm believer in predestination,
and I used to improvise superstitions of my own in
connection with the cricket matches I played in.
Aunt Evelyn was rustling the newspaper in the
drawing-room, where she was having a short spell of
inactivity before setting forth to judge the vegetables
and sweet peas. Evidently she was reading about
politics (she was a staunch Tory).

"I can't understand what that miserable Campbell-
Barmerman is up to: but thank heaven the Radicals

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