“Ain’t done yet,” screamed the jockey vengefully as he passed.

“You’re never done,” said Silver quietly, as he stroked the muzzle of the reeking brown.  “Never could take a licking like a gentleman!”

The jockey, beside himself, leaned out toward the other.

“Want it across the ——­ mug, do ye, Silver?” he yelled.  “One way o’ winnin’!”

“Come, then, Mr. Woodburn.  This won’t do!” cried Jaggers austerely as he passed.

“Of course it won’t,” answered Old Mat.  “Dropped a rare packet among you, ain’t you?  Think you’re goin’ to let that pass without tryin’ on the dirty?”

The White Hat leaned down from the Grand Stand.

“What’s the trouble, Mr. Jaggers?” he cried.

“Miss Woodburn rode the winner, my lord,” answered the trainer at the top of his voice.

The words ran like a flame along the top of the crowd.

They leapt from mouth to mouth, out of the Paddock, on to the course, and round it.  And where they fell there was instant hush followed by a roar, in which a new note sounded:  All was not lost. The Americans, cast down to earth a moment since, rose like a wild-maned breaker towering before it falls in thunder and foam upon the beach.  There was wrath still in their clamour; but their cry now was for Justice and not for Revenge.

John Bull had been at it again.  The fair jockey was a girl.  Some had known it all along.  Others had guessed it from the first.  All had been sure there would be hanky-panky.

As they came shoving off the course into the Paddock, and heaved about the weighing-room, the howl subdued into a buzz as of a swarm of angry bees.

The thousands were waiting for a sign, and the growl that rose from them was broken only by groans, cat-calls, whistles, and vengeful bursts of

          Hands off and no hanky-panky!

Old Mat, Jim Silver, and the great horse stood on the edge of the throng, quite unconcerned.

Many noticed them; not a few essayed enquiries.

“Is your jockey a gal, Mr. Woodburn?”

“So they says,” answered Old Mat.

“Where’s Miss Woodburn then?”

“Inside, they tell me.”

He nodded to the door of the weighing-room, which opened at the moment.

In it, above the crowd, appeared the jockey with the green jacket, his cap well over his eyes.

There was an instant hush.  Then English and Americans, bookies and backers, began to bawl against each other.

“Are you a gal?” screamed some one in the crowd.

“No, I ain’t,” came the shrill, defiant answer.

The voice did not satisfy the crowd.

“Take off your cap, Miss!” yelled another.

“Let’s see your face!”

Joses, who was standing by the steps that led up to the weighing-room, leapt on to them and snatched the cap from the jockey’s head.