“The Shirker, at eight stone four, is a good ’ot chance, but no cert, Jimmy. We’ll let ’em know this trial quite open, weights and all. That’ll bring her in the betting. And we’ll watch Diamond Stud. If he drops back we’ll know Jenning thinks he can’t beat us now. If Diamond Stud stands up we’ll know Jenning thinks he’s still got our mare safe. Then our line’ll be clear: we lay off the lot, pick up a thousand or so, and ’ave the mare in at a nice weight at Liverpool.” ‘Jimmy’s’ smudged-in eyes stared hungrily. “How’s that?” he said. “Suppose she wins?” “Wins! If we lay off the lot, she _won’t_ win.” “Pull her!” George Pulcher’s voice sank half an octave with disgust. “Pull her! Who talked of pullin’? She’ll run a bye, that’s all. We shan’t ever know whether she could ’a won or not.” ‘Jimmy’ sat silent; the situation was such as his life during sixteen years had waited for. They stood to win both ways with a bit of handling. “Who’s to ride?” he said. “Polman’s got a call on Docker. He can just ride the weight. Either way he’s good for us--strong finisher and a rare judge of distance; knows how to time things to a T. Win or not, he’s our man.” ‘Jimmy’ was deep in figures. Laying-off at sevens, they would still win four thousand and the stakes. “I’d like a win,” he said. “Ah!” said Pulcher. “But there’ll be twenty in the field, my son; no more uncertain race than that bally Cambridgeshire. We could pick up a thou. as easy as I pick up this pot. Bird in the ’and, Jimmy, and a good ’andicap in the bush. If she wins, she’s finished. Well, we’ll put this trial about and see ’ow Jenning pops.” Jenning popped amazingly. Diamond Stud receded a point, then re-established himself at nine to two. Jenning was clearly not dismayed. George Pulcher shook his head and waited, uncertain still which way to jump. Ironical circumstance decided him. Term had begun; ‘Jimmy’ was busy at his seat of custom. By some miracle of guardianly intervention, young Colquhoun had not gone broke. He was ‘up’ again, eager to retrieve his reputation, and that little brute ‘Jimmy’ would not lay against his horse! He merely sucked-in his cheeks, and answered: “I’m not layin’ my own ’orse.” It was felt that he was not the man he had been; assertion had come into his manner, he was better dressed. Someone had seen him at the station looking quite a ‘toff’ in a blue box-cloth coat standing well out from his wisp of a figure, and with a pair of brown race-glasses slung over the shoulder. Altogether the ‘little brute was getting too big for his boots.’ And this strange improvement hardened the feeling that his horse was a real good thing. Patriotism began to burn in Oxford. Here was a ‘snip’ that belonged to them, as it were, and the money in support of it, finding no outlet, began to ball.