Indeed, the excellence of her form spoke to the heart of the poet in him. He dwelt almost lovingly upon that astonishing fore-hand and the mouse-head with the wild eye that revealed the spirit burning within. As her lad withdrew from her a moment, she gave that familiar toss of the muzzle familiar to thousands, which made a poet say that she was fretting always to transcend the restraint of the flesh. "If she's as good as she looks," said Joses, "she's good enough." "She's better," said the jockey with the high cheek-bones. He passed his hand along the mare's rein. It was said that Chukkers had never cared for a horse in his life, and it was certain that many horses had hated Chukkers. But it was common knowledge that he was fonder of the mare than he had ever been of any living creature. "She's got nothing up against her as I know of," said Jaggers in his austere way. "There's Moonlighter, the Irishman, of course." "He can't stay," said Chukkers briefly. "And Gee-Woa-There, the Doncaster horse." "He can't gallop." "And Kingfisher, the West country crack." "He beats himself jumpin'." "And that's about the lot--only the Putnam horse," continued the trainer. "They think I know nothing about him. I know some, and I want to know more." "I'll settle that," said Joses. The jockey was pulling the mare's ears thoughtfully. "You'd like to take a little bit of Putnam's, I daresay?" he said. "I wouldn't mind if I did," replied the tout. "It was them done you down at the trial," continued the jockey. "Old Mat and his Monkey and Silver Mug. The old gang." "Regular conspiracy," said Jaggers censoriously. "Ought to be ashamed of themselves. Doin' down a pore man like that." The three moved out into the yard. A little later trainer and jockey stood in the gate of the yard and watched Joses shuffle away across the Downs. "He's all right," said Chukkers, sucking the ivory charm he always carried. "Ain't 'alf bitter." "Changed," smirked Jaggers, "and for the better. They've done 'emselves no good, Putnam's haven't, this journey." Joses established his headquarters as of old at Cuckmere, and he made no secret of his presence. Nor would it have been of much avail had he attempted concealment. For the Saturday before the trial gallop had brought Mat Woodburn a letter from Miller, the station-clerk at Arunvale, which was the station for Dewhurst. The station-clerk had a feud of many years' standing with Jaggers, and had moreover substantial reasons of his own for not wishing Mocassin to win at Aintree. Along the line of the South Downs to be against Dewhurst was to be in with Putnam's, and the telegraph line between Arunvale and Cuckmere could tell many interesting secrets of the relations between Mat Woodburn and the station-clerk.