He stood displayed before them, fair-haired, close-cropped, shy, and a little sullen.

There was a moment’s pause.  Then divergent voices shot heavenward and clashed against each other.

“It is!”

“It’s her!”

“That’s Miss Woodburn!”

“No, it ain’t!”

Words were becoming blows, and there were altercations everywhere, when the Clerk of the Scales appeared on the steps and held up his hand for silence.

“Where is Miss Woodburn?” he called.

The words confirmed suspicion, and brought forth a roar of cheering from the Americans.

“Here, sir!” panted a voice.

Monkey Brand was forcing his way through the crowd, heralded by the police.  Behind him followed a slight figure in dark blue.

“Is that Miss Woodburn?” called the Clerk.

“Yes,” replied a deep voice.  “Here I am.”

“Would you step up here?”

The girl ran up the steps, and took her place by the little jockey.  Whoever else was disconcerted, it was not she.

A sound that was not quite a groan rose from the watching crowd and died away.

The girl gave her hand to the jockey.

“Well ridden, Albert,” she said, and in the silence her words were heard by thousands.

The lad touched his forehead, and took her hand sheepishly.

“Thank you, Miss,” he answered.

Then the storm broke, and the bookies who had made millions over the defeat of the favourite led the roar.

There was no mistaking the matter now.  The Boys had been sold again.

The rougher elements amongst Ikey’s Own sought a scape-goat.

They found him in Joses.

Chukkers came out of the weighing-room and deliberately struck the fat man.  That started it:  the crowd did the rest.

Old Mat and Jim Silver waited on the outskirts of the hub-bub.

The American Ambassador and his tall dark daughter stood near by.

“What stories they tell,” said the great man in his gentle way.

“Don’t they, sir?” answered Old Mat, wiping an innocent blue eye.  “And they gets no better as the years go by.  They saddens me and Mar.  They does reelly.”

Boy Woodburn, making her way through the crowd, joined the little group.

“Congratulations, Miss Woodburn,” said the Ambassador’s daughter shyly.  “The best horse won.”

The fair girl beamed on the dark.

“Thank you, Miss Whitney,” she answered.  “A good race.  You were giving us a ton of weight.”

Perhaps the girl was a little paler than her wont; but there was no touch of lyrical excitement about her.  Outwardly she was the least-moved person in the Paddock.

Jim Silver’s eyes were shining down on her.

“Well,” he said.

She led away.  He followed at her shoulder, the horse’s bridle over his arm.

“You’ve won your hundred thousand,” she said.