The old lady’s distress was such that at length the young man took his courage in his hands and approached the girl.

“Boy,” he said, “are you going to ride him? Please tell me.”

The girl set her lips.

“You think I’m afraid of Aintree,” she said deeply.

“I don’t,” he pleaded.  “I swear to you I don’t.”

She was not to be appeased.

“You do,” she answered mercilessly.  “You said you did.”

“If I ever did I was only chaffing.”

“I know why you don’t want me to ride,” she laughed hardly.

“Why?”

“Because then you’ll be free to win your hundred thousand.  That’s all you care about.  But you won’t.  If I don’t ride him, he won’t win.  If I do, you can’t bet.”

The young man was miserable.

“Hang my hundred thousand!” he cried.  “As if I care a rap for that.”  He made a final appeal.  “If I’ve done wrong, I can only say I’m most awfully sorry, Boy.”

“You’ve done very wrong,” replied the girl ruthlessly.  “And when we’ve done wrong we’ve got to pay for it,” added Preacher Joe.

“Damn him!” muttered the other.

“What!” flashed the girl.

“Sorry,” mumbled the young man, and fled with his tail between his legs.

* * * * *

That afternoon a telegram came for Old Mat.

He showed it to Silver.

“That’s from Miller, the station-master at Arunvale,” he said.  “They’re goin’ to gallop the mare.  Would you like to step over and see what you can make of her?”

The young man agreed willingly.

“No good my comin’,” said Mat.  “But you might take Monkey Brand along—­if he’ll go.”

But the little jockey, when approached, refused.

“Why not?” asked Silver, determined to save the little man’s soul if it was to be saved.

“I’m too fond o’ Monkey, sir,” the other answered, his face inscrutable.

“What d’you mean?”

“Why, sir, if they was to catch Monkey in Chukkers’s country they’d flay him.”

“Who would?”

“The Ikey’s Own.”

Silver stared at him.

“Who are the Ikey’s Own?”

“They’re Them!” said Monkey with emphasis.  “That’s what they are—­and no mistake about it.”

          We are coming.  Uncle Ikey, coming fifty million strong,
          For to see the haughty English don’t do our Ikey wrong.

“He slipped ’em over special last back-end.  Chose ’em for the job.  Bowery toughs; scrubs from Colorado; old man o’ the mountains; cattle-lifters from Mexico; miners from the west; Arizona sharps.  Don’t matter who, only so long as they’ll draw a gun on you soon as smile.  Come across the ocean to see fair play for the mare.  They’re campin’ round her—­rigiments of ’em.  If a sparrer goes too near her, they lays it out. No blanky hanky-panky this time—­that’s their motter.”