Many on the Grand Stand had not marked the incident.  They were watching now with all their eyes for a more familiar sensation.

Chukkers was leaving the rails to swing for the Canal Turn.

The Englishmen and bookies, their hands to their mouths, were screaming exhortations, warnings, advice, to the little fair jockey far away.

“Canal Turn!”

“Dirty Dago!”

“The old game!”

“Watch him, lad!”

“His only chance!”

“Riding for the bump!”

Old Mat paid no heed.

“Mouse bump a mountain,” he grunted.  “But Chukkers won’t get the chance.”

And it seemed he was right.

The fence before the Turn the brown horse was leading by a length and drawing steadily away, as the voices of the triumphant English and the faces of the Americans proclaimed.

Mat stared through his glasses.

“Chukkers is talkin’,” he announced.  “And he’s got somefin to talk about from all I can see of it.”

Any danger there might have been had, in fact, been averted by the pressing tactics of the Putnam jockey.

The two horses came round the Turn almost together, the inside berth having brought the mare level again.

Side by side they came over Valentine’s Brook, moving together almost automatically, their fore-legs shooting out straight as a cascade, their jockeys swinging back together as though one; stride for stride they came along the green in a roar so steady and enduring that it seemed almost natural as a silence.

Old Mat shut his glasses, clasped his hands behind him, and steadied on his feet.

“Now,” he said comfortably.  “Ding-dong.  ’Ammer and tongs.  ’Ow I likes to see it.”

He peeped up at the young man, who did not seem to hear.  Silver stood unmoved by the uproar all around him, apparently unconscious of it.  He was away, dwelling in a far city of pride on heights of snow.  His spirit was in his eyes, and his eyes on that bobbing speck of green flowing swiftly toward him with sudden lurches and forward flings at the fences.

All around him men were raging, cheering, and stamping.  What the bookies were yelling nobody could hear; but it was clear from their faces that they believed the favourite was beat.

And their faith was based upon reality, since Chukkers for the first time in the history of the mare was using his whip.

Once it fell, and again, in terrible earnest.  There was a gasp from the gathered multitudes as they saw and understood.  That swift, relentless hand was sounding the knell of doom to the hopes of thousands.

Indeed, it was clear that Chukkers was riding now as he had never ridden before.

And the boy on the brown never moved.

Three fences from home Chukkers rallied the mare and called on her for a final effort.

Game to the last drop, she answered him.