“Where is he?” asked Silver.

“Away on the right there,” answered the old man.  “Doin’ a cake-walk on the next hoss’s toes.”

There was very little trouble at the post.  The starter got his field away well together at the first drop of the flag.

Only one was left, and that was green.

The great horse who had been sparring with the air as the flag fell came down from aloft and got going a long six lengths behind the field.

Neither he nor his rider seemed the least concerned.

“That’s my little beauty,” muttered Old Mat.  “He’ll start his own time, he will.  Maybe to-day; maybe to-morrow; maybe not at all.  One thing, though:  he has started.”

The brown horse was pulling out to the right to lie on the outside.

The old trainer nodded approvingly.

“That’s right, my boy,” he said.  “You let ’em rattle ’emselves to bits, while you lays easy behind.  There’ll be plenty o’ room in front in a moment or two.”

An old hand in a white top-hat just in front turned round.

“That lad o’ yours rides cunning, Mr. Woodburn,” he said.

“He’s a fair card, he is,” replied the old man enigmatically.

“Was it deliberate?” asked an ingenious youth.

“Who shall say, my son?” replied the old trainer.  “Only the grass-’opper what walketh the tiles by night—­same as the Psalmist says.”

The scramble and scrimmage at the first few fences resulted in plenty of grief.  Jockeys were rising from the ground and running off the course, and loose horses were pursuing their perilous way alone.

Behind the first flight, in the centre of the course, showed conspicuous the Star-spangled Jacket of the favourite.

Chukkers, too, was taking his time, running no risks, his eyes everywhere, calculating his chances, fending off dangers as they loomed up on him one after the other.  He was drawing in to the rails on his left flank for security from cannoning horses.

The first few fences behind him, the danger of a knock-out would be greatly lessened.  Till then it was most grave.  Chukkers was aware of it; so were the tens of thousands watching; so were his stable-mates.

As Chukkers crossed to the rails Jackaroo, who lay in front on the inside, drew away to let the favourite up under his lee.  Flibberty-gibbet, on the other hand, the second Dewhurst horse, had been bumped at the first fence, and pecked heavily on landing.  Little Boy Braithwaite in the canary jacket had been unshipped, and was scrambling about on his horse’s neck.  He lay now a distance behind.  Chukkers was signalling furiously with his elbow for the boy to come up on his right; and he had cause.

For Kingfisher, the West-country horse, riderless and with trailing reins, was careering alongside him like a rudderless ship in full sail.

For two fences the loose horse and the favourite rose side by side; and the watchers held their breath.