“The first question that arises h’out of h’our lesson to-day,” she began quietly, “is this ‘ere—­’What price Four-Pound-the-Second?’ Now think afore you answers, there’s good little fellers.”

It was Jerry who held up his hand.

The girl pointed at him.

“You there, Jerry me boy.”

“Depends on who rides him, Mrs. Chukkers,” he said.

There was a deadly silence.  In it the girl let the handle of the pointer fall with the noise of a grounded rifle.

“Mrs. Who?” she asked, fatally quiet.

“Chukkers, ma’am,” answered the courteous Jerry.

“Go on then,” sneered the girl.  “Chukkers ain’t married.  Nobody won’t ’ave him.”

Jerry had risen.

“No, ma’am.  That he ain’t,” said the polished little gentleman.  “You’re his mother—­from Sacramento.  Anyone could see that by the likeness.  You’re the spit of each other, if I might make so bold.  And I’m sure,” said the orator, “speakin’ on be’alf of all present, meself included, we feel honoured by the presence in our umble midst of the mother of the famous ’orseman—­Chukkers Childers.”

In the silence the speaker resumed his seat.

The lady addressed was too busy to reply.

She was taking off her drab coat, her picture hat, and her pig-tail, and she was spitting in her hands.

Soaping them together, she came to the edge of the platform.

“Shall I come down and give it you?” she asked.  “Or will you come up and fetch it?”

“Neever, thank you,” said Jerry, puffing imperturbably.

Albert jumped down.

“You’re for it, Jerry,” said Stanley, glad it was his friend’s turn this time.

“Not me,” Jerry replied.  “No scrappin’ Sunday.  Miss Boy’s orders.”

Albert, very white, was sparring all round his adversary’s head.

“Chukkered me, did ye?” he said.  “Put ’em up then, or I’ll spoil ye.”

The offence was the unforgiveable in the Putnam stable, and the watching lads had every hope of a battle royal when a calm, deep voice stilled the storm.

“That’ll do,” it said.

The real Boy entered.

The dark blue of her dress showed off her fair colouring and hair.

She was nearly twenty-one now and spiritually a woman, if she still retained the slight, sword-like figure of her girlhood days.  Her face was graver than of old and more quiet.  The touch of almost aggressive resolution and defiance it once possessed had shaded off into something stiller and more impressive.  There was less show of strength and more evidence of it.  Her roots were deeper, and she was therefore less moved by passing winds.  Something of her mother’s calm had invaded her.  She got her way just as of old, but she no longer had to battle for it now as then.  Or if she had to battle, the fight was invisible, and the victory fought and won in the unseen deeps of her being.