"Spavin," Joses said; and the secret was out. For all the world knew that Spavin was the code-address of the shady and successful trainer at Dewhurst on the Arunvale side of the Downs. "Who said Jaggers?" came a little voice at his elbow. The fat man turned to find the jockey close behind him. "I did," he answered brazenly. Monkey smiled the smile of a bottle-fed cherub. "'Ow's my ole pal Chukkers?" he piped. Joses grinned. "Just back," he said. "So I hears," answered the other. "Been teachin' 'em tricks in Horsetralia, ain't he? Went there by way of God's Country, same as per usual, huntin' fer black diamonds. What's he brought back this journey?--a pink-eyed broncho from the Prairees bought for ten cents from a Texas cow-puncher, and guaranteed to show the English plugs the way to move." Joses wagged a shaggy head. If to retain a sense of humour is still to possess something of a soul, then the fat man was not entirely lost. "You love Chukkers, don't you?" he said. "Don't I love all dagos?" asked Monkey. "Sich a pretty little way with 'em they got. Same as a baa-lamb in the meadow 'mong the buttercups." "Then now I'll tell you something for yourself," said Joses. "He loves all the English--owners, jockeys, and crowd. But he loves _you_ best." "Never!" cried Monkey, greatly moved. "Then I'm the man what won the Greaser's Heart. It's too much." A few further inquiries, made by Mat, put the thing beyond question. Joses was watcher for Jaggers, who trained for Ikey Aaronsohnn, for whom Chukkers rode. In England, Australia, and the Americas, the three were always spoken of together as the Three J's--Jaggers, the Jockey, and the Jew. Wherever horses raced their fame was great, and amongst the English at least it was evil and ominous. "Rogues and rasqueals!" Old Mat would say with one of his deep sighs. "But whatebber should we do without 'em?" For Putnam's the Three J's had always possessed a particular interest. Their stable was at Dewhurst, just behind Arunvah, at the other end of the South Downs. And Dewhurst had been for twenty years the centre of that campaign to lower the colours of the English thoroughbred, which Ikey Aaronsohnn had embarked upon in his unforgotten youth. The little Levantine hailed from New York, Hamburg, and London--especially the first two. A cosmopolitan banker, and genial rascal, he had, even in England, a host of friends, and deserved them. A man of ideals, and extremely tenacious, _objets d'art_ and steeplechase horses had been his twin passions from his childhood. He collected both with a judgment amounting to genius. And there were few experts in either kind who were not prepared to acknowledge him their master.