They were now emerging on the wide sweep of down commanding the little
old country town which stands to the whole world as the racing capital of
England. To their left, huge and gaunt against the night sky, rose the
Grand Stand.
"Where does Trotman hang out?" asked Radmore. "Shan't we have a devil of
a difficulty in knocking him up?"
"I don't think we shall," said his small companion, confidently. "You see
there must always be some sick animal for someone to sit up with. I'd
rather be nurse to a dog than to a woman, wouldn't you?"
They turned into the steep road leading into the town, flashing past
shuttered villas set in gardens, till they reached a labyrinth of quaint,
narrow, walled thoroughfares dating from the 18th century.
"We're very near now," said Timmy. "Isn't it funny, Godfrey, to feel that
everybody's asleep but us?" They had come to a corner where high walls
enclosed what might once have been the kitchen garden of a Georgian
manor-house.
"Here it is!" cried the boy.
Radmore stopped the car and then he jumped out and struck a match. Over
a door, set in the wall, stood out in clear lettering the words, "John
Trotman, Veterinary Surgeon.
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