BRIGHTON TO NEWHAVEN 63 



independent, or others surly, and only trouble to 

 open for you in Sunday's closing hours during 

 the summer. So I tried Horlick on the dog — 

 which was a one-pound cat — and she ought to 

 write the firm a testimonial. About a dozen 

 tablets do me well for a lunch. My young friend 

 wolfed eight — ^just gave 'em two or three licks 

 for a start and then bolted them whole — in as 

 many minutes, and asked for more. But, malted 

 milk or no malted milk, she was like the gentle- 

 man rider who won a race at Plumpton a few 

 years ago, and only smiled superior when adjured 

 to get off to be weighed in. " Not till they call 

 * all right,' " said the clever amateur. *' You don't 

 get me disqualified like that." As close as a 

 limpet she stuck until I was safe in my stable. 

 Right along she selected the back of a high chair, 

 and has bossed the show ever since. 



From Lewes to another training centre, which 

 you could also do from Newhaven, is only a step, 

 or at least not much more. This step I took 

 many a time and oft while Gatland had the 

 training quarters at Alfriston, on the Cuckmere 

 River bank — the establishment christened Win- 

 grove House by Charley Archer, after a very 

 well-known and popular racing gentleman, and 

 now in Batho's hands. The pace did not kill 

 Gatland, a singularly careful man in all his habits. 

 Poor, plucky chap that he was, he died of a painful, 

 lingering disease, and lies in Alfriston's breezy 

 churchyard, only "moved from over the way," 

 with the stables just on the other side of the 

 Tye, a bit of common land, dividing his old 

 house from the church. Finding Gatland's 

 almost unmarked grave, I called to mind Lindsay 

 Gordon's sick stock-rider, and did so the more 



