It was no use protesting. The Manager was not yet
visible, and even if he had been Vardri knew there was no appeal.
There had been complaints about his negligence more than once, and of
course he had been missed on the previous evening. None of the
"strappers" would have reported him, but one of the clowns, a Spaniard
with whom he had fought for ill-treating a horse, had seen him leaving
the vicinity of the dressing-rooms, and had carried the information to
headquarters.
The informer had chosen his time well, and had found the Manager raging
over Arithelli's mishap, and ready to dismiss anyone with or without
reason.
Vardri turned his back on the place whistling defiance, and with his
courage fallen below zero. He would have liked to say good-bye to the
horses, and to some of the men who were his friends. He had never
disliked the actual work, and it was at the Hippodrome that he had
first met Arithelli. Her misfortune and his had come together. At any
other time it would not have been quite so bad. A few months ago he
would not have cared whether he lost his place or not.
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