And next morning his London agent snapped up some thirty-threes again. According to the trial the mare was The Hangman at seven stone two, and really hot stuff--a seven to one chance. It was none the less with a sense of outrage that, opening the _Sporting Life_ on the last day of September, he found her quoted at 100--8. Whose work was this? He reviewed the altered situation in disgust. He had invested about half the stable commission of three hundred pounds at an average of thirty to one, but, now that she had ‘come’ in the betting, he would hardly average tens with the rest. What fool had put his oar in? He learned the explanation two days later. The rash, the unknown backer, was ‘Jimmy’! He had acted, it appeared, from jealousy; a bookmaker--it took one’s breath away! “Backed her on your own just because that young ‘Cocoon’ told you he fancied her!” ‘Jimmy’ looked up from the table in his ‘office,’ where he was sitting in wait for the scanty custom of the Long Vacation. “She’s not _his_ horse,” he said sullenly. “I wasn’t going to have _him_ get the cream.” “What did you put on?” growled Pulcher. “Took five hundred to thirty and fifteen twenties.” “An’ see what it’s done--knocked the bottom out of the commission. Am I to take that fifty as part of it?” ‘Jimmy’ nodded. “That leaves an ’undred to invest,” said Pulcher, somewhat mollified. He stood, with his mind twisting in his thick, still body. “It’s no good waitin’ now,” he said; “I’ll work the rest of the money on to-day. If I can average tens on the balance, we’ll ’ave six thousand three hundred to play with and the stakes. They tell me Jenning fancies this Diamond Stud of his. _He_ ought to know the form with Callĭōpe, blast him! We got to watch that.” They had! Diamond Stud, a four-year-old with eight stone two, was being backed as if the Cambridgeshire were over. From fifteens he advanced to sevens, thence to favouritism at fives. Pulcher bit on it. Jenning _must_ know where he stood with Calliope! It meant--it meant she couldn’t win! The tactician wasted no time in vain regret. Establish Calliope in the betting and lay off! The time had come to utilise The Shirker. It was misty on the Downs--fine weather mist of a bright October. The three horses became spectral on their way to the starting-point. Polman had thrown The Parrot in again, but this time he made no secret of the weights. The Shirker was carrying eight seven, Calliope eight, The Parrot seven stone. Once more, in the cart, with his glasses sweeping the bright mist, ‘Jimmy’ had that pit-patting in his heart. Here they came! His mare leading--all riding hard--a genuine finish! They passed--The Shirker beaten a clear length, with the Parrot at his girth. Beside him in the cart, George Pulcher mumbled: “She’s The Shirker at eight stone four, Jimmy!” A silent drive back to the river inn, big with thought; a silent breakfast. Over a tankard at the close the oracle spoke.