Amid a burst of jeers and cheers, he threw his leg over his horse's
withers, slipped to the ground, stripped off the saddle, and limped off
to the weighing machine.

Old Mat watched him go.

"On his hoss, on his day," he muttered confidentially to the young man,
"Monkey Brand can show his heels to most of 'em yet."

"How old is he?" asked the other.

The old trainer frowned and shook his head mysteriously.

"You must never ask a jockey his age, no more than a woman," he said.
"He come to me the year I was married, and that's twenty year since come
Michaelmas. And when he come he looked much just the very same as he do
now. Might ha' been any age atween ten and a hundred." He dropped his
voice. "Only way he shows his years--he ain't so fond of fallin' as he
was. And I don't blame him. Round about forty a man begins to get a bit
brittle like."

He lilted off after his jockey.

Goosey Gander stood stripped of everything but his bridle, with dark
flanks and lowered head reaching at his bit.

He was a typical Woodburn horse: a great upstanding bay, full of bone
and quality. But he showed wear. A tube was in his throat, a
leather-boot on each fore-leg, and he was bandaged to the hocks, both of
which showed the serrated lines of the firing iron.

The girl in front of him pulled his sweating ears. Jim Silver watched
with admiration not untinged with awe her stern young face. She was
entirely unconscious of his gaze, and unaware of the people thronging
her. Her whole spirit was concentrated on the dark and sweating head,
trying to rub against her knees. The crowd pressed in upon her
inconveniently.

"Give the lady a chance to breathe," cried the young man in his large
and lazy voice.

The crowd withdrew a little.

"Say, Guv'nor!--do they call you Tinee?" called one.

"No; his name's Silver," said another. "They calls you Silver Mug, don't
they, mister?"

"I believe so," replied the young man, unmoved.

He was fair game: for he was very big, clearly good-humoured, spick and
span to a fault, and a member of another class.

They gathered with glee to the baiting.

"That ain't because of his name, stoopid. That's because he's got a
silver linin' to his mug, ain't it, sir?"

"Silver!--gold, you mean. 'E breathes gold, that bloke do, and then it
settles on the roof of his jaw. Say, Blokey, open your mug and let's
'ave a peep. I'll put a penny in."

* * * * *

A little red bal