as he advanced in years he would manifest his disapproval of a system whereby men made money at his expense.  And with that eye half-circled by the moon he looked at George, and in silence George looked back at him, strangely baffled by the horse’s long, soft, wild gaze.  On this heart beating deep within its warm, dark satin sheath, on the spirit gazing through that soft, wild eye, too much was hanging, and he turned away.

“Mount, jockeys!”

Through the crowd of hard-looking, hatted, muffled, two-legged men, those four-legged creatures in their chestnut, bay, and brown, and satin nakedness, most beautiful in all the world, filed proudly past, as though going forth to death.  The last vanished through the gate, the crowd dispersed.

Down by the rails of Tattersall’s George stood alone.  He had screwed himself into a corner, whence he could watch through his long glasses that gay-coloured, shifting wheel at the end of the mile and more of turf.  At this moment, so pregnant with the future, he could not bear the company of his fellows.

“They’re off!”

He looked no longer, but hunched his shoulders, holding his elbows stiff, that none might see what he was feeling.  Behind him a man said: 

“The favourite’s beat.  What’s that in blue on the rails?”

Out by himself on the far rails, out by himself, sweeping along like a home-coming bird, was the Ambler.  And George’s heart leaped, as a fish leaps of a summer evening out of a dark pool.

“They’ll never catch him.  The Ambler wins!  It’s a walk-over!  The Ambler!”

Silent amidst the shouting throng, George thought:  ‘My horse! my horse!’ and tears of pure emotion sprang into his eyes.  For a full minute he stood quite still; then, instinctively adjusting hat and tie, made his way calmly to the Paddock.  He left it to his trainer to lead the Ambler back, and joined him at the weighing-room.

The little jockey was seated, nursing his saddle, negligent and saturnine, awaiting the words “All right.”

Blacksmith said quietly: 

“Well, sir, we’ve pulled it off.  Four lengths.  I’ve told Swells he does no more riding for me.  There’s a gold-mine given away.  What on earth was he about to come in by himself like that?  We shan’t get into the ‘City’ now under nine stone.  It’s enough to make a man cry!”

And, looking at his trainer, George saw the little man’s lips quiver.

In his stall, streaked with sweat, his hind-legs outstretched, fretting under the ministrations of the groom, the Ambler stayed the whisking of his head to look at his owner, and once more George met that long, proud, soft glance.  He laid his gloved hand on the horse’s lather-flecked neck.  The Ambler tossed his head and turned it away.

George came out into the open, and made his way towards the Stand.  His trainer’s words had instilled a drop of poison into his cup.  “A goldmine given away!”