“Stick him with this!”

Monkey Brand, who had suddenly come to life, had hold of the winner, sweating, amiable, entirely unmoved by the pandemonium around, and was leading him away into the Paddock through the outskirts of the howling mob.

The crowd was too maddened to pay attention to the little man and his great charge.  Those who were not bent on murdering Chukkers were absorbed in watching those who were.

Old Mat, trotting at Silver’s side, was chuckling and cooing to himself like a complacent baby, as the pair descended the Grand Stand and made for the Paddock.

“Yes,” he was saying, “my bankers’ll be please—­very please, they will.  And good cause why.  That’s a hundud thousand quid, Mr. Silver, in my pocket—­all a-jinglin’ and a-tinglin’.  ’Ark to em!—­like ’erald angels on the go.”  He paused, touched the other’s arm, and panted huskily:  “Funny thing!  A minute since it was in the h’air—­ewaporated, as the sayin’ is.  Now it’s here—­froze tight.”  He slapped his pocket.  “Makes the ’ead to think and the ’eart to rejoice, as the Psalmist said on much a similar occasion.  Only we’d best not tell Mar.  Wonderful woman, Mar, Mr. Silver, and grows all the while more wonderfulerer.  Only where it is is—­there it is.”  He lifted his rogue-eye to the young man’s face and cried in an ecstasy of glee.  “Oh, how glorioushly does the wicked flourish—­if only so be they’ll keep their eyeballs skinned!”

At the gate the White Hat stopped him.

“So you’ve got up on ’em again, Mr. Woodburn,” he said. 
“Congratulations, Mr. Silver.”

On the course the pair ran into Monkey Brand, leading the winner home.

“Here, sir!” he cried, seeming excited for the first time in his life.  “All O.K.  Bit giddified like.  That’s all.  Take the horse.  The Three J’s mean business, I tell ye.  I must be moving.”

Silver looked up at the little jockey perched aloft upon the brown.

“All right?” he asked keenly.

The other, whose peaked cap was drawn far over his eyes, nodded down through the tumult, saying no word.

At the moment Jaggers ran past, trying to get at his jockey.  Joses, slobbering at the mouth, was shouting in the trainer’s ear.

Both men plunged into the vortex.

“Easy all!” came Jaggers’s priest-like voice.  “Give him a chance, boys.  We aren’t beat yet.”

“Win, tie, or wrangle!” muttered Old Mat.  “That’s the Three J’s all right.”

The mounted police were shepherding Chukkers off the course into the Paddock.  There was murder in his face.  He swung about and showed his yellow fangs like a mobbed wolf at the pack baying at his heels.

Once inside the Paddock he was just going to dismount, when Jaggers, Joses, and Ikey Aaronsohnn rushed at him and held him on.

“Stick to her!” screamed Joses.

The little group drifted past Old Mat and Jim Silver, who was holding the winner.  Four-Pound-the Second’s jockey had already disappeared into the weighing-room.