“Which?”

“There’s old Jackaroo—­in the purple and gold, Rushton riding.”

“Which is the second Dewhurst horse?”

“This in the canary.  Flibberty-gibbet.  Little Boy Braithwaite.”

“He’s only a nipper.”

“He can ride, though.”

“They’re to nurse the crack through the squeeze.”

“She’ll want nursing.”

“She’s all right if she stands up till Beecher’s Brook.”

“She’ll stand up.  Trust Chukkers.”

“He’s got nothing to beat.”

“Only Moonlighter.”

“Which is the Irish horse?”

“The gray there.  Cerise and white.”

“Flashy thing.”

“Yes.  He’ll give no trouble though.  Three mile and a half is his limit.”

“Here’s Gee-Woa, the Yorkshireman.”

“Looks an old-fashioned sort.”

“He can jump a haystack and stay all day; but he can’t get a move on.”

“If there’s grief enough he might get home, though.”

“There’s Kingfisher.  The West-country crack.  Bay and two white ducks.”

Last but one came Four-Pound-the-Second with his little fair jockey up.  The horse was so big, and the jockey so small, that a laugh went up as the pair came by.

“What’s this in green, then?”

“Old Mat’s horse.  Four-Pound-the-Second.  Ten stun.”

“Anything known of him?”

“Won a small race at Lingfield.”

“Who’s riding?”

“One o’ the Putnam lads.  Carries his prayer-book in his pocket.  Mar makes ’em—­for luck!”

“He can foot it.”

“I’d like to see a walkin’-race between that mare and the big un.  What’s his price?” He leaned over to the ring below and asked.

“Twenties,” came the answer.

Jaggers heard and nudged Ikey.

The Putnam horse marched by, blowing his nose, and in front of the Grand Stand gave a playful little buck as much as to say:  “I would if I could, but I won’t.”

Then Chukkers swung round and led the horses back to the starting-point.

“Only one thing I wish,” muttered Old Mat in his companion’s ear.  “I wish there’d been rain in the night.  Twelve-stun-three’d steady Miss Mustang through the dirt.”

“Our horse has got a little bit in hand,” replied the young man.

“You’re right, sir,” answered the other.

The gossip came and went about the pair.  Neither heard nor indeed heeded it.  The old man was easy, almost nonchalant; the young man quiet and self-contained.

The horses drew up to the right, their backs to the Grand Stand, a long, swaying line of silken jackets shimmering in the sun.

Old Mat’s face became quietly radiant.

“Pretty, ain’t it?” he said.  “Like a bed o’ toolups swaying in the wind.  I wish Mar could see that.  Worst o’ principles, they cuts you off so much.”

He raised his glasses.

“Where’s Chukkers?  Oh, I see.  In the middle, and his buffer-hosses not too fur on eether side of him.  That’s lucky for Chukkers.  One thing, my little baa-lamb’ll take a bit o’ knockin’ out.”