A
broad smooth stretch of grass lies opposite to the stands, and at one
end of this half-mile stretch there runs a barrier, the bottom of which
is fringed with straw and furze. If you examined that barrier, you would
find that it really opens into a wide dense copse, and that a hare or
rabbit which whisks under it is safe on the far side. At the other side
of this field a long fenced lane opens, and seems to be closed at the
blind end by a wide door. To the right of the blind lane is a tiny hut
surrounded by bushes, and by the side of the hut a few scattered men
loaf in a purposeless way. Presently a red-coated man canters across the
smooth green, and then the diabolical tumult of the stands reaches
ear-splitting intensity. Your betting-man is cool enough in reality; but
he likes to simulate mad eagerness until it appears as though the
swollen veins of face or throat would burst. And what is going on at the
closed end of that blind lane? On the strip of turf around the wide
field the demure trainers lead their melancholy-looking dogs. Each
greyhound is swathed in warm clothing, but they all look wretched; and,
as they pick their way along with dainty steps, no one would guess that
the sight of a certain poor little animal would convert each doleful
hound into an incarnate fury.
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