“You love Chukkers, don’t you?” he said.

“Don’t I love all dagos?” asked Monkey.  “Sich a pretty little way with ’em they got.  Same as a baa-lamb in the meadow ’mong the buttercups.”

“Then now I’ll tell you something for yourself,” said Joses.  “He loves all the English—­owners, jockeys, and crowd.  But he loves you best.”

“Never!” cried Monkey, greatly moved.  “Then I’m the man what won the Greaser’s Heart.  It’s too much.”

A few further inquiries, made by Mat, put the thing beyond question.

Joses was watcher for Jaggers, who trained for Ikey Aaronsohnn, for whom Chukkers rode.

In England, Australia, and the Americas, the three were always spoken of together as the Three J’s—­Jaggers, the Jockey, and the Jew.  Wherever horses raced their fame was great, and amongst the English at least it was evil and ominous.

“Rogues and rasqueals!” Old Mat would say with one of his deep sighs.  “But whatebber should we do without ’em?”

For Putnam’s the Three J’s had always possessed a particular interest.

Their stable was at Dewhurst, just behind Arunvah, at the other end of the South Downs.  And Dewhurst had been for twenty years the centre of that campaign to lower the colours of the English thoroughbred, which Ikey Aaronsohnn had embarked upon in his unforgotten youth.

The little Levantine hailed from New York, Hamburg, and London—­especially the first two.  A cosmopolitan banker, and genial rascal, he had, even in England, a host of friends, and deserved them.  A man of ideals, and extremely tenacious, objets d’art and steeplechase horses had been his twin passions from his childhood.  He collected both with a judgment amounting to genius.  And there were few experts in either kind who were not prepared to acknowledge him their master.

The day when Ikey, then young, sure of himself, and enthusiastic, had been called a “bloody little German Jew” in the Paddock at Liverpool by a noble English sportsman, as he led his first winner home, had been forgotten by others but not by him.  And when a year later the little man stood for White’s Club, on the strength of winning the International, and was black-balled, the die was cast.

There was no doubt that Ikey had his qualities.  Whether he was your friend or your enemy, he never forgot you; and he gave you cause to remember him.  His memory was long; his temper not to be ruffled; his humour, in victory and defeat, invincible; his purse unfathomable.  He was never known to be angry, impetuous, or bitter.  And he never deviated from his aim.  That aim, as he once told the New York Yacht Club, in words that were trumpeted across the world, was “to lick the English thoroughbred on his own ground, at his own game, all the time, and every way.”

What P. Forilland had done for a previous generation of Americans, when Iroquois snatched the Blue Riband of the Turf from the English and bore it across the Atlantic, Ikey meant to do some day at Liverpool.