"Sevens--if Chukkers rides," cried the cherub. "Tens if he don't." The answer was received with jeers. "Chukkers _not_ ride!" "O' course he'll ride!" "He always has ridden her--here and in the States and in Australia!" Stanley finally deigned to descend from his heights to crush the youth. "They got a quarter of a million on God Almighty's Mustang, the Three J's 'ave. Think they'd trust anyone up only one of their fat selves? Now then!" In the middle of the storm Monkey Brand, who had been waiting for the girl in the door, looked in. He saw the writing on the board and crossed the barn. Monkey himself could neither read nor write, but he was well aware that anything written by the lads should be rubbed out at once. "Who wrote this?" he asked. Jerry, who on the other's entrance had descended swiftly from the platform, repeated the question. "Who wrote this?" he asked authoritatively. "Can't you 'ear Mr. Brand?" "Albert, I reck'n," answered Stanley, taking his cue from his pal. The door opened, and a girl stood on the threshold. "Who said Albert?" she asked. The lads turned. The young lady wore a long drab coat and had a fair pig-tail. She was like Boy Woodburn and yet unlike her: the figure much the same, the colouring identical. But if it was Boy, the years had coarsened her and altered the expression in her eyes not for the better. With swift, decisive steps she made for the platform amid the suppressed giggles of the lads. Jerry made way for her at once. The girl proceeded to rub out with the duster all the questions but the first. Then she turned over the leaves of a Bible, wetting her thumb for that purpose, seized the pointer, and took her stand by the blackboard. "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.