“We’d best be moving,” said the girl to her companion.

She led the old horse away before the oncoming crowd.

Silver followed, with grave amusement in his face.  He did not know whether he dared to laugh or not, and was too much afraid to try.  The girl was aware of his embarrassment and became shy in her turn.

She led the old horse up to the buggy.

This was the tit-bit of the meeting, the last and by far the greatest event.  Everybody always waited for it.  For was it not the Grand Finale of the Jumping Season?

Monkey Brand stuffed his saddle away in the buggy, and pulled the harness out from beneath the seat.  Then he and Albert began to harness Goosey Gander, while Boy stood at the old horse’s head.

The crowd gathered round and began to chaff.

“Say, Monkey, when you get that ’orse ’ome, shall you ’ave ’im for supper?—­to finish the day like?”

“They’ll never get ’im ‘ome.  He’s goin’ to lay down and die when ’e strikes the road—­ain’t you, beauty?  And I don’t blame ’im neether.”

“He ain’t though.  They won’t let him.  That old ’orse has got to take the washin’ round when he gets back to Cuckmere this evenin’.”

Goosey Gander was harnessed now.

Old Mat made slowly toward the buggy.

The crowd, which had been popping off its feu-de-joie of jokes, steadied into silence to watch the old man climb to his seat.

“Someone to see you, Mr. Woodburn,” came a voice in the silence.

“Indeed,” panted the old man, his heavy shoulders rising and falling.  “Who’s that?”

There was a movement in the crowd, which parted.  At the farther end of the lane thus made, a flashy young gypsy was seen, with a somnolent old mare on a halter.

“There, Mr. Woodburn!” called the gypsy in a hoarse staccato voice.  “There she is—­your sort to the tick.  Black Death blood.  Throw you a National winner and all.”

The old man cast his shrewd blue eye over the mare.

She was old and rough as the halter that adorned her drooping head; but there was no mistaking her quality any more than that her one aim in life was to go to sleep.

“Yes, she’s a lady all right,” said the old man.

“Black Death mare, sir,” reiterated the gypsy.  “Out o’ Vendetta.  Carry the young lady a dream.”

“Might ha’ done twenty year ago,” muttered the trainer.  He took off his hat and made a floundering rush at the mare.  She never so much as winked an eye, pursuing her undeviating purpose with a steadfastness worthy of a greater cause.  Old Mat grunted.

“Look her over, Boy,” he said.

The girl, who loved a bargain dearly as she loved a horse, was already walking round the mare.  Her father was in a complacent mood; and when he was happy he would do the romantic and foolish things the girl’s soul loved.

“Like her, Boy?” the old man asked.