Third to Referee in the three-year-old race at Sandown Spring--two heads--was all that was known of her, and now they had given her seven two in the Cambridgeshire. She might have a chance, and again she might not. He sat two long evenings with ‘Jimmy’ in the little private room off the bar, deliberating this grave question. ‘Jimmy’ inclined to the bold course. He kept saying: “The mare’s a flyer, George--she’s the ’ell of a flyer!” “Wait till she’s been tried,” said the oracle. Had Polman anything that would give them a line? Yes, he had The Shirker (named with that irony which appeals to the English), one of the most honest four-year-olds that ever looked through bridle, who had run up against almost every animal of mark--the one horse that Polman never interfered with, or interrupted in his training lest he should run all the better; who seldom won, but was almost always placed--the sort of horse that handicappers pivot on. “But,” said Pulcher, “try her with The Shirker, and the first stable money will send her up to tens. That ’orse is so darned regular. We’ve got to throw a bit of dust first, ‘Jimmy.’ I’ll go over and see Polman.” In ‘Jimmy’s’ withered chest a faint resentment rose--it wasn’t George’s horse; but it sank again beneath his friend’s bulk and reputation. The ‘bit of dust’ was thrown at the ordinary hour of exercise over the Long Mile on the last day of August--the five-year-old Hangman carrying eight stone seven, the three-year-old Parrot seven stone five; what Calliope was carrying nobody but Polman knew. The forethought of George Pulcher had secured the unofficial presence of the Press. The instructions to the boy on Calliope were to be there at the finish if he could, but on no account to win. ‘Jimmy’ and George Pulcher had come out over night. They sat together in the dog-cart by the clump of bushes which marked the winning-post, with Polman on his cob on the far side. By a fine, warm light the three horses were visible to the naked eye in the slight dip down by the start. And, through the glasses, invested in now that he had a horse, ‘Jimmy’ could see every movement of his mare with her blazed face--rather on her toes, like the bright chestnut and ‘bit o’ blood’ she was. He had a pit-patting in his heart, and his lips were tight-pressed. Suppose she was no good after all, and that young ‘Cocoon’ had palmed him off a pup! But mixed in with his financial fear was an anxiety more intimate, as if his own value were at stake. From George Pulcher came an almost excited gurgle. “See the tout! See ’im behind that bush. Thinks we don’t know ’e’s there, wot oh!” ‘Jimmy’ bit into his cheroot. “They’re running,” he said. Rather wide, the black Hangman on the far side, Calliope in the middle, they came sweeping up the Long Mile. ‘Jimmy’ held his tobaccoed breath. The mare was going freely--a length or two behind--making up her ground! Now for it!