more so than was Joses. And he meant what
he said. His clean, calm face, his mouth so determined and yet so mild,
his steady eyes and the thrust of his jaw, all betrayed his resolution.

"Here, stow it!" stammered the fat man. "Chuck the chaff. A gentleman!"

"I'm not chaffing," said Silver in a matter-of-fact way. "How d'you like
it?"

"What ye mean?"

"Will you put your hands up--or will you take it lying?"

His pony's rein was over the young man's arm; and they were standing on
the edge of the cliff. Joses, weighing his chances with the swift and
comprehending eye of fear, marked it greedily. Silver was young, strong,
an athlete; but he was handicapped.

Joses's cunning was returning to reinforce his doubtful heart.

"That's Heart of Oak, isn't it?" he asked.

"Is it?" said the young man.

"The model polo pony," continued Joses. "Refused L600 for him at
Islington, didn't you? And I don't blame you. You're rich, we all know,
Mr. Silver. L600's no more to you than sixpence to me. But there's the
pony! You can't replace him. Pity if he got away here on the edge of the
cliff and all."

For the second time that morning Joses's luck deserted him.

"I'll hold your pony," said a deep voice from behind.

The fat man turned.

Boy Woodburn stood behind him.

Fresh from the sea, her hair in short, thick plaits of gold, dark and
wet and bare; with the eyes of a sword and the colour of an
apple-blossom; the brine upon her and the brown of wind and sun; in her
breeches, boots, and jersey, her big dog straining on his lead, she
looked like Diana turned post-boy.

"Thank you," said the young man, handing over his pony.

Joses snorted.

"Call yourself a woman!" he cried.

"I'm all right," answered the girl, seating herself critically on a
mound, the pony in one hand, the dog in the other. "Don't hit him over
the heart," she advised out of some experience of race-course scraps.
"There might be trouble."

"I sha'n't hit him at all," replied the young man. He seized the fat man
by the shoulder and spun him round. "I shall--_shake_ him, and--_punt_
him."

The girl did not know what punting meant, but it sounded good and was
not so bad to watch.

Silver was applying his knee to his victim with precision and power. The
fat man's teeth seemed to rattle under the pounding shocks. The words
came joggling out of him, and they were not pretty words. He struck
backward with his arms and feet, wriggling to get his plump