The little procession entered, Billy Bluff at the heels of the great horse, striking fire in the dusk from the cobbled yard.

“He’s to look after Chukkers, I suppose,” said the yard-man grimly, pleased at his own generosity, well satisfied with his wit, and fairly so with Albert’s tribute to it.

“He’s to look after my horse,” said Boy resolutely.

“He looks he could look after himself, Miss,” replied the witty yard-man.

“So he can, sir, with you to help him,” said the swift and tactful Albert.

The yard-man, who could tell you stories of Boomerang’s National, and Cannibal’s victory, that not even Monkey Brand could surpass, knew of old the feeling between Putnam’s and the Dewhurst stable, and had placed the boxes of the two horses far apart.

* * * * *

All through the week the excitement grew.

The Sefton Arms was seething; the bar a slowly heaving mass of racing-men, jockeys, touts, habitues.

Once or twice there were rows between Ikey’s Own—­the Yankee doodlers, as the local wits called them—­and the English silver-ring bookies; and the cause of the quarrels was invariably the same—­the treatment of the mare at last year’s National.

Throughout the week Boy went her quiet, strenuous way, unconscious of the commotion about her, or careless of it.

Jim Silver escorted her to and from the yard.  Most people knew Old Mat’s daughter and respected her; and those who did not, respected the grave-faced young giant who was her constant attendant.

When the pair passed swiftly through the bar, an observer would have noticed that a hush fell on the drinkers, accompanied by surreptitious elbow-nudgings and significant winks.

It was clear that the young couple were of secret interest to the dingy crowd.  And in fact there were rumours afloat about them—­sensational stories not a few about what they stood to win in love upon the race.

Monkey Brand and Joses were always drinking together in the bar as Silver walked through.  Once he passed quite close to them.  The little jockey’s glassy eye rested meaninglessly on the young man’s face and wandered away.  When the other had moved on, he dropped his eyelid and muttered to his pal: 

“Wants the ——­ kybosh puttin’ on him.  Good as called me a copper’s nark.”

“Hundred thousand in the pot,” grinned the fat man.  “And a dainty bit o’ white meat.  I don’t blame him.”  He licked his lips.

* * * * *

There were few more familiar figures at the bar of The Sefton Arms at National time than that of Monkey Brand, and this year few more pathetic ones.

It was soon bruited abroad that Old Mat and his head-lad had parted after more years of association than many cared to recall.  And it was clear that the little man felt the rupture.  He wandered morosely through the crowd in the train of his fat familiar like a lost soul outside the gates of Paradise.  Usually a merry sprite, the life and soul of every group he joined, he was under the weather, as the saying went, and what was still more remarkable he showed it.