TheCompleteMemoirsOfGeorgeSherston

that the garment would do him credit. My sole regret
was that I hadn't yet been asked to wear the Hunt
button. Downstairs in the dignified and reposeful
reception room the presiding presence was warming
himself in front of a bright fire. As he conducted me
to the door I observed with secret awe some racing
colours in a glass case on the wall. In after years I
recognized them as being Lord Rosebery's.

Craxwell & Go. was a less leisurely interior. As
might have been expected, there was an all-pervading
odour of leather, and one was made to feel that only
by a miracle could they finish up to time the in-
numerable pairs of top-boots for which they had
received orders. The shop bristled and shone with
spurs; and whips and crops of all varieties were
stacked and slung and suspended about the walls.
Pace was indicated everywhere and no one but a
hard-bitten thruster could have entered without
humility. A prejudiced mind might have imagined
that all Craxwell's customers belonged to some ultra-
insolent, socially snobbish, and libertine breed of
military Mohocks. But the percentage, I am sure,
was quite a small one, and my boots, though awk-
ward to get into at first, were close-fitting and high
in the leg and altogether calculated to make me feel
that there were very few fences I would not cram my
horse at. In outward appearance, at least, I was now
a very presentable fox-hunter,

Stephen Colwood had advised me to patronize
those particular places, and it was no fault of his
that I was still a comparative greenhorn. Anyhow,
young Mr. Craxwell (who looked quite as much a
gentleman as the self-satisfied sportsmen I saw in his
shop) was kind enough to tell me that I had "a very
good leg for a boot".

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