. Jerry, the economist with the corrugated brow,
followed him on a snake-necked chestnut. He sat up aloft, his shoulders
square, his little legs clipping his mount, a Napoleon of the saddle,
pondering apparently the great things of life and death. In fact, he was
cogitating whether if he smoked behind the Lads' Barn at nights it was
likely that he would be caught out by Miss Boy. Next came Stanley, the
stupid, surreptitiously nagging at the flashy black he rode. Young
Stanley was in evil mood, and he meant his horse to know it. His dark
and heavy face was full of injured dignity and spite. Last night
Chukkers, just back from winning the Australian National, had wired to
say he couldn't keep his engagement to ride Make-Way-There at Paris.
Monkey Brand would not ride, as his leg had been troubling him again;
and Jerry had it that Albert, who was Make-Way-There's lad, was to get
the mount. Stanley resented the suggestion. Albert had never yet ridden
in public, while he, Stanley, had sported silk half-a-dozen times and
had won over the sticks.

"Pull out, Brand," grunted the old trainer.

The little jockey yielded the lead to Albert, and joined the group of
watchers.

The lads continued their patrol.

"What's the going like on the top there, Brand?" asked the old man.

"Not so bad, sir," the other answered. "Tidy drop o dew, I reck'n."

Make-Way-There, now she had the lead, showed a tendency to swagger. She
bounced and tossed. The fair lad, swaying to the motions of his horse,
rode the fretting creature patiently and well.

"She's a bit okkud yet," said Monkey, watching critically. "_Woa, my
lady. Woa then._"

"It's the condition comin' out of her," muttered Mat. "She's all of a
bubble. Fret herself into a sweat. Boy, you'd better take her. Send her
along five furlongs smart and bustle her a bit as she comes up the
slope."

"No," said the girl.

The old man threw a swift glance at her.

Boy had stuck her toes in again. He knew all the symptoms of old and
made no effort to overcome them. She was growing into a woman, Boy was.
That was the young man. A while back she cared not a rap for all the men
in creation.

The old man made a mental note for reference to Ma.

"Albert can ride her," said the girl. "I want to see if he's coming on."

Jerry, the true prophet, winked; Stanley jobbed the black in the mouth
and kicked him; Albert, his face firm and important, drew out. He had at
least one of the qualities of