Just clear of the course outside the rails, under the Embankment, a little group of police made a dark blue knot about the stretcher on which Boy Braithwaite had been taken from the course. As the brown horse swept hard by the group a blob of yellow thrust up suddenly above the rails amid the blue. It was too much even for Four-Pound. He shied away and crashed into his fence. Only his weight and the speed at which he was travelling carried him through. A soughing groan went up from the Grand Stand, changing to a roar, as the great horse, quick as a goat, recovered himself and settled unconcernedly to his stride again. "Riz from the dead to do us in," muttered Old Mat. "Now he's goin' 'ome again," as the blob of yellow collapsed once more. "P'raps he'll stop this time." "I think it was an accident," said Silver. "I know them accidents," answered Old Mat. "There's more to come." For the moment it seemed to the watchers as if the mare was forging ahead; and the Americans took heart once again. But the green jacket and the star-spangled rose at Beecher's Brook together; and the young horse, as though chastened by his escape, was fencing like a veteran. As the horses turned to the left at the Corner, something white detached itself from the stragglers on the Embankment and shot down the slope at the galloping horses like a scurry of foam. "Dog this time," grunted Old Mat, watching through his glasses. "Lurcher, big as a bull-calf." Whatever it was, it missed its mark and flashed across the course just clear of the heels of the Putnam horse. He went striding along, magnificently unmoved. Old Mat nodded grimly. "You can't upset my little Fo'-Pound--bar only risin's from the dead, which ain't 'ardly accordin' not under National Hunt Rules anyway," he said. "If a tiger was to lep in his backside and chaw him a nice piece, it wouldn't move _him_ any." Many on the Grand Stand had not marked the incident. They were watching now with all their eyes for a more familiar sensation. Chukkers was leaving the rails to swing for the Canal Turn. The Englishmen and bookies, their hands to their mouths, were screaming exhortations, warnings, advice, to the little fair jockey far away. "Canal Turn!" "Dirty Dago!" "The old game!" "Watch him, lad!" "His only chance!" "Riding for the bump!" Old Mat paid no heed. "Mouse bump a mountain," he grunted. "But Chukkers won't get the chance." And it seemed he was right. The fence before the Turn the brown horse was leading by a length and drawing steadily away, as the voices of the triumphant English and the faces of the Americans proclaimed. Mat stared through his glasses. "Chukkers is talkin'," he announced. "And he's got somefin to talk about from all I can see of it." Any danger there might have been had, in fact, been averted by the pressing tactics of the Putnam jockey. The two horses came round the Turn almost together, the inside berth having brought the mare level again.