"With Mr. Adams it is a case of punish first so that you won't do anything wrong after. Sense, in a way." He gave a snort of laughter.

"Saves trouble, see?"

"Are his horses all hunters?" I asked.

"No," said Cass, 'but the two you've got are, and don't you forget it.

He rides those himself, and he'll notice how you look after every hair on their hides. "

"Does he treat the lads who look after his other horses so shockingly unfair?"

"I've never heard Jerry complaining. And Mr. Adams won't treat you too bad if you mind your p's and q's. Now that lesson he suggested…"

I had hoped he had forgotten it.

"You can get down on your knees and scrub the concrete paths round the yard. Start now. You can break for dinner, and then go on until evening stables."

I went on standing in a rag-doll attitude of dejectedness, looking at the ground, but fighting an unexpectedly strong feeling of rebellion. What the hell, I

thought, did October expect of me? Just how much was I to take? Was there any point at which, if he were there, he would say "Stop; all right; that's enough. That's too much. Give it up." But remembering how he felt about me, I supposed not!

Cass said, "There's a scrubbing brush in the cupboard in the tack room. Get on with it." He walked away.

The concrete pathways were six feet wide and ran round all sides of the yard in front of the boxes. They had been scraped clear of snow throughout the month I had been there so that the feed trolley could make its usual smooth journey from horse to horse, and as in most modern stables, including Inskip's and my own, they would always be kept clean of straw and excessive dust. But scrubbing them on one's knees for nearly four hours on a slushy day at the end of January was a miserable, back-breaking, insane waste of time. Ludicrous, besides.

I had a clear choice of scrubbing the paths or getting on the motor-cycle and going. Thinking firmly that I was being paid at least ten thousand pounds for doing it, I scrubbed; and Cass hung around the yard all day to watch that I didn't rest.

The lads, who had spent much of the afternoon amusing themselves by jeering at my plight as they set off for and returned from the cafe in Posset, made quite sure during evening stables that the concrete paths ended the day even dirtier than they had begun. I didn't care a damn about that; but Adams had sent his hunters back caked with mud and sweat and it took me two hours to clean them because by the end of that day many of my muscles were trembling with fatigue.

Then, to crown it all, Adams came back. He drove his Jaguar into the yard, climbed out, and after having talked to Cass, who nodded and gestured round the paths, he walked without haste towards the box where I was still struggling with his black horse.

He stood in the doorway and looked down his nose at me; and I looked back. He was superbly elegant in a dark blue pin-striped suit with a white shirt and a silver- grey tie. His skin looked fresh, his hair well brushed, his hands clean and pale. I imagined he had gone home after hunting and enjoyed a deep hot bath, a change of clothes, a drink. I hadn't had a bath for a month and was unlikely to get one as long as I stayed at Humber's. I was filthy and hungry and extremely tired. I wished he would go away and leave me alone.

No such luck.

He took a step into the box and surveyed the mud still caked solid on the horse's hind legs.

"You're slow," he remarked.

"Yes, sir."

"This horse must have been back here three hours ago. What have you been doing?"

"My three other horses, sir."

"You should do mine first."

"I had to wait for the mud to dry, sir. You can't brush it out while it's still wet."

"I told you this morning not to answer back." His hand lashed out across the ear he had hit before. He was smiling slightly. Enjoying himself Which was more than could be said for me.

Having, so to speak, tasted blood, he suddenly took hold of the front of my jersey, pushed me back against the wall, and slapped me twice in the face, forehand and backhand. Still smiling.

What I wanted to do was to jab my knee into his groin and my fist into his stomach; and refraining wasn't easy. For the sake of realism I knew I should have cried out loudly and begged him to stop, but when it came to the point I couldn't do it. However, one could act what one couldn't say, so I lifted both arms and folded them defensively round my head.

He laughed and let go, and I slid down on to one knee and cowered against the wall.

"You're a proper little rabbit, aren't you, for all your fancy looks."

I stayed where I was, in silence. As suddenly as he had begun, he lost interest in ill-treating me.

"Get up, get up," he said irritably.

"I didn't hurt you. You're not worth hurting. Get up and finish this horse. And make sure it is done properly or you'll find yourself scrubbing again."

He walked out of the box and away across the yard. I stood up, leaned against the doorpost, and with uncharitable feelings watched him go up the path to Humber's house. To a good dinner, no doubt. An arm chair. A fire. A glass of brandy. A friend to talk to. Sighing in depression, I went back to the tiresome job of brushing off the mud.

Shortly after a supper of dry bread and cheese, eaten to the accompaniment of crude jokes about my day's occupation and detailed descriptions of the meals which had been enjoyed in Posset, I had had quite enough of my fellow workers. I climbed the ladder and sat on my bed. It was cold upstairs. I had had quite enough of Humber's yard. I had had more than enough of being kicked around. All I had to do, as I had been tempted to do that morning, was to go outside, unwrap the motor-cycle, and make tracks for civilization. I could stifle my conscience by paying most of the money back to October and pointing out that I had done at least half of the job.

I went on sitting on the bed and thinking about riding away on the motor-bike. I went on sitting on the bed. And not riding away on the motor-bike.

Presently I found myself sighing. I knew very well I had never had any real doubts about staying, even if it meant scrubbing those dreadful paths every day of the week. Quite apart from not finding myself good company in future if I ran away because of a little bit of eccentric charring, there was the certainty that it was specifically in Mr. P. J. Adams' ruthless hands that the good repute of British racing was in danger of being cracked to bits. It was he that I had come to defeat.

It was no good decamping because the first taste of him was unpleasant.

His name typed on paper had come alive as a worse menace than Humber himself had ever seemed. Humber was merely harsh, greedy, bad-tempered, and vain, and he beat his lads for the sole purpose of making them leave. But Adams seemed to enjoy hurting for its own sake.

Beneath that glossy crust of sophistication, and not far beneath, one glimpsed an irresponsible savage. Humber was forceful; but Adams, it now seemed to me, was the brains of the partnership. He was a more complex man and a far more fearsome adversary. I had felt equal to Humber. Adams dismayed me.

Someone started to come up the ladder. I thought it would be Cecil, reeling from his Saturday night orgy, but it was Jerry. He came and sat on the bed next to mine. He looked downcast.

Dan? "

"Yes."

"It weren't… it weren't no good in Posset today, without you being there."

"Wasn't it?"

"No." He brightened.

"I bought my comic though. Will you read it to me?"

"Tomorrow," I said tiredly.

There was a short silence while he struggled to organize his thoughts.

"Clan."

"Mm?"

"I'm sorry, like."

"What for?"

"Well, for laughing at you, like, this afternoon. It wasn't right… not when you've took me on your motor-bike and all. I do ever so like going on your bike."