n the moss-litter lay Billy Bluff, curled and dreaming of the
chase. And on a bed of bracken by the manger, his long legs tied up in
knots, was the foal.

Silver peeped and instantly withdrew as one who has trespassed
innocently.

"Pretty as a pictur, ain't it?" whispered the little jockey. "Only don't
go for to say I give her away. That'd be the end of Monkey Brand, that
would."

He swung the lantern so that the light flashed on the face of the
sleeping girl.

"That'll do," muttered the young man uneasily. "You'll wake her."

"No, sir. She's fast," the other answered. "Fair wore out. He wouldn't
take the bottle yesterday, and she was up with him all night. I went
down to her when it come light. Only where it is she won't allow nobody
to do nothin' for him only herself." He stole back to his lair in the
straw at the far end of the loft. "That's the woman in her, sir," he
said in his sagacious way. "Must have her baby all to herself. Nobody
don't know nothin' about it only mother."

Four-Pound-the-Second after the first few perilous weeks throve
amazingly. He ceased to be a pretty creature, pathetic in his
helplessness, and grew into a gawky hobbledehoy, rough and rude and
turbulent.

Old Mat shook his head over the colt.

"Ugliest critter I ever set eyes on," he said, partly in earnest and
partly to tease his daughter.

"You'll see," said Boy firmly.

"If he's a Berserk he's worth saving, surely," remarked Silver.
"Berserker--Black Death. Ought to be able to hop a bit."

Everybody at Putnam's knew that the colt was the son of that famous
sire, but nobody, except Mat Woodburn and Monkey Brand, knew how they
knew it.

"Oh! if he's going to win the National--as I think he is, de we--he's
worth a little trouble," replied the old man, winking at Monkey Brand.

"D'you think he'll win the National?" cried the young man, simple as a
child.

"Certain for sure," replied the other. "When 'e walks on to the course
all the other hosses'll have a fit and fall down flat. And I don't blame
'em, neether."

"Father _thinks_ he's funny," said the girl with fine irony.

"I ain't 'alf so funny as that young billy-goat o' yours, my dear,"
replied the old trainer, and lilted on his way. "It's his foster-ma he
takes after. The spit of her, he be."

As soon as the foal began to find his legs Boy took him out into the
Paddock Close, and later on to the Downs. He followed like a dog,
skirmishing with Billy Bluff up and dow