were shepherding Chukkers off the course into the
Paddock. There was murder in his face. He swung about and showed his
yellow fangs like a mobbed wolf at the pack baying at his heels.

Once inside the Paddock he was just going to dismount, when Jaggers,
Joses, and Ikey Aaronsohnn rushed at him and held him on.

"Stick to her!" screamed Joses.

The little group drifted past Old Mat and Jim Silver, who was holding
the winner. Four-Pound-the Second's jockey had already disappeared into
the weighing-room.

"Ain't done yet," screamed the jockey vengefully as he passed.

"You're never done," said Silver quietly, as he stroked the muzzle of
the reeking brown. "Never could take a licking like a gentleman!"

The jockey, beside himself, leaned out toward the other.

"Want it across the ---- mug, do ye, Silver?" he yelled. "One way o'
winnin'!"

"Come, then, Mr. Woodburn. This won't do!" cried Jaggers austerely as he
passed.

"Of course it won't," answered Old Mat. "Dropped a rare packet among
you, ain't you? Think you're goin' to let that pass without tryin' on
the dirty?"

The White Hat leaned down from the Grand Stand.

"What's the trouble, Mr. Jaggers?" he cried.

"Miss Woodburn rode the winner, my lord," answered the trainer at the
top of his voice.

The words ran like a flame along the top of the crowd.

They leapt from mouth to mouth, out of the Paddock, on to the course,
and round it. And where they fell there was instant hush followed by a
roar, in which a new note sounded: _All was not lost._ The Americans,
cast down to earth a moment since, rose like a wild-maned breaker
towering before it falls in thunder and foam upon the beach. There was
wrath still in their clamour; but their cry now was for Justice and not
for Revenge.

John Bull had been at it again. The fair jockey was a girl. Some had
known it all along. Others had guessed it from the first. All had been
sure there would be hanky-panky.

As they came shoving off the course into the Paddock, and heaved about
the weighing-room, the howl subdued into a buzz as of a swarm of angry
bees.

The thousands were waiting for a sign, and the growl that rose from them
was broken only by groans, cat-calls, whistles, and vengeful bursts of

_Hands off and no hanky-panky!_

Old Mat, Jim Silver, and the great horse stood on the edge of the
throng, quite unconcerned.

Many noticed them; not a few essayed enquiries.

"Is your jockey a gal, Mr