‘Jimmy’ gazed at George Pulcher’s fancy with a sort of hostility. Here came another--Wasp, six stone ten, and Deerstalker nine stone--top and bottom of the race! ‘My ’orse’d beat either o’ them,’ he thought stubbornly. ‘Don’t like that Wasp.’ The distant roar was hushed. They were running in the first race! He moved back to the gate. The quick clamour rose and dropped, and here they came--back into the paddock, darkened with sweat, flanks heaving a little! ‘Jimmy’ followed the winner, saw the jockey weigh in. “What jockey’s that?” he asked. “That? Why, Docker!” ‘Jimmy’ stared. A short, square, bow-legged figure, with a hardwood face! Waiting his chance, he went up to him and said: “Docker, you ride my ’orse in the big race.” “Mr. Shrewin?” “The same,” said ‘Jimmy.’ The jockey’s left eyelid drooped a little. Nothing responded in ‘Jimmy’s’ face. “I’ll see you before the race,” he said. Again the jockey’s eyelid wavered, he nodded and passed on. ‘Jimmy’ stared at his own boots--they struck him suddenly as too yellow and not at the right angle. But why, he couldn’t say. More horses now--those of the first race being unsaddled, clothed, and led away. More men--three familiar figures: young ‘Cocoon’ and two others of his Oxford customers. ‘Jimmy’ turned sharply from them. Stand their airs?--not he! He had a sudden sickish feeling. With a win, he’d have been a made man--on his own! Blast George Pulcher and his caution! To think of being back in Oxford with those young bloods jeering at his beaten horse! He bit deep into the stump of his cheroot, and suddenly came on Jenning standing by a horse with a star on its bay forehead. The trainer gave him no sign of recognition, but signed to the boy to lead the horse into a stall, and followed, shutting the door. It was exactly as if he had said: ‘Vermin about!’ An evil little smile curled ‘Jimmy’s’ lips. The tyke! The horses for the second race passed out of the paddock gate, and he turned to find his own. His ferreting eyes soon sighted Polman. What the cat-faced fellow knew, or was thinking, ‘Jimmy’ could not tell. Nobody could tell. “Where’s the mare?” he said. “Just coming round.” No mistaking her; fine as a star; shiny-coated, sinuous, her blazed face held rather high! Who said she was ’shelly’? She was a picture! He walked a few paces close to the boy. “That’s Calliope.... H’m!... Nice filly!... Looks fit.... Who’s this James Shrewin?... What’s she at?... I like her looks.” His horse! Not a prettier filly in the world!