necessary to always have a plentiful supply, for, to put it in the words of one of the stable lads, "'orses eat 'earty." It is all a mistake to think that horses in training are starved. Such is far from the case. They are well fed, and always regularly to a moment. When a horse is going to run in a race, the animal will be kept short of water, and it will be sent on its momentous journey with a meal of a couple of handfuls of oats; but otherwise, your racing horse fares well, and on the best of everything.
Next to the granary is the "Wardrobe," where all the best things are kept. The boxes are full of smart clothing, which is only worn on special occasions. Then we try the weighing machine which is used for trial weights, and examine great pieces of lead which are strapped into the saddle cloths to make up the necessary weight as required. The very saddles which we handle are not without interest. Many of them are great heavy specimens of the saddle-maker's art, weighing 21 lbs., and others delicate little samples of workmanship, which are used for racing, and when weighed with stirrups and band, and all complete, would just about turn the scale at 3 lbs. The saddles used when exercising the horses weigh 10 lbs.
Noticing the many effectual appliances in case of fire, we pass once more into the yard where is Miss Archer's carriage-house. The door is drawn back, and there in miniature is a victoria and the identical wagonette already mentioned. These two are painted in the colours of Warren House—black and blue. A couple of perambulators, now no longer needed, are in the far corner, one of which is particularly interesting. It is of wicker work, lined with blue satin, and decorated with hand-worked flowers. It was brought from America by little Miss Archer's father as a present. A beautiful cross in Newmarket Cemetery marks the grave of poor Archer, where he, his wife, and infant son William lie buried.
Miss Archer and "Billy."
"But that's not a race-horse," we exclaim, suddenly coming across an old black hack, whose appearance is scarcely so spick and span as its neighbours.
"No," replies our guide. "You see, the head lad never rides a horse that is in training, but always a hack;" and with this information we hurry across the yard, down the street leading from the station, past the Jubilee Clock at the top of the town.
It was night when we turned up a narrow pathway leading to Lord Durham's training establishment, presided over by Mr. A. B. Sadler. The bells of St. Mary's, the parish church, were ringing merrily, and the rooks were making their presence known amongst the boughs of the fine trees which overlook the meadow at the back. The horses were shut up for the night, and our reason for coming here was to note the aspect of the all-important stable at the close of the day. Not a sound was to be heard, only the playing of the stable boys—for through a window looking on to the yard might be seen these playful youths, with their coats and waist-
