CHAPTER XI 



IN AND ABOUT EPSOM 



I AM afraid to say how often I have been at 

 Epsom, in and out of race times. I used to think 

 that I knew all about it, from the wicked lord 

 story to the goldfish in the ponds ; from the 

 oldest house to the new clock building made to 

 accommodate the fire-engine, and built a few 

 sizes too small, so that the fire-escape has to 

 lean up against the tower outside ; from Amato's 

 grave to the Marquis of Epsom's open-air studio, 

 where he used to paint his railings so artistically ; 

 I knew it all — everything except the number of 

 different ways for getting between the South- 

 western Station and the Grand Stand. Epsom is 

 an old typical Surrey town, with just a cut of 

 Tunbridge Wells in it ; one about which you 

 might profitably spend a good long while in 

 exploring. You can't beat these places, which 

 before the days of railways were just far enough 

 out for London's rich City merchants, whose 

 substantial houses and fine gardens occur all 

 over Epsom Town ; and you can't beat the 

 place for air — good, strong, wholesome fresh air, 

 with plenty of character ; not the sort like 

 Brighton's, which is associated with a blinky 



