The girl in front of him pulled his sweating ears.  Jim Silver watched with admiration not untinged with awe her stern young face.  She was entirely unconscious of his gaze, and unaware of the people thronging her.  Her whole spirit was concentrated on the dark and sweating head, trying to rub against her knees.  The crowd pressed in upon her inconveniently.

“Give the lady a chance to breathe,” cried the young man in his large and lazy voice.

The crowd withdrew a little.

“Say, Guv’nor!—­do they call you Tinee?” called one.

“No; his name’s Silver,” said another.  “They calls you Silver Mug, don’t they, mister?”

“I believe so,” replied the young man, unmoved.

He was fair game:  for he was very big, clearly good-humoured, spick and span to a fault, and a member of another class.

They gathered with glee to the baiting.

“That ain’t because of his name, stoopid.  That’s because he’s got a silver linin’ to his mug, ain’t it, sir?”

“Silver!—­gold, you mean.  ’E breathes gold, that bloke do, and then it settles on the roof of his jaw.  Say, Blokey, open your mug and let’s ’ave a peep.  I’ll put a penny in.”

* * * * *

A little red ball was run up an improvised pole.  Old Mat was waving.

“All right,” he called.

The girl led Goosey Gander out of the Paddock into the field at the back.  Women in parti-coloured shawls selling oranges, labourers, riff-raff, and children were gathered about the merry-go-rounds and cocoanut-shies, listening apathetically to the hoarse exhortations of the owners to come and try their luck.

Silver followed the girl thoughtfully.

She led the winner past the side-shows toward the group of stately elms under which the carriages and carts were gathered.

The ejected stable-lad, Albert Edward, now in his shirt-sleeves, came toward her, carrying a bucket.  The girl rinsed out the old horse’s mouth.  Then with swift, accustomed fingers she unlaced the leather-boots, and set to work to unwind a bandage.

Jim Silver watched her attentively and then began clumsily on the other bandage.

“No,” she said.  “Like so,” and taking it from him unwound it in a trice.

The old horse shook himself.

“Go and fetch his rug from the buggy,” ordered the girl, addressing Albert.

The lad went off.

The young man took off his long-waisted gray coat and flung it over the horse’s loins, lining down.

Boy’s gray eyes softened.  Then she let go the horse’s head, took the coat off swiftly, and as swiftly replaced it, lining upward.

“Thank-you,” she said.

She glanced over her shoulder.

“Will you lead him up and down, while I go and fetch his rug?” she said.  “That kid’ll be all day.”

“Rather!” replied the young man, with the fervour of a child to whom a pony has been entrusted for the first time.