He followed Polman into her stall to see her saddled. In the twilight there he watched her toilet; the rub-over; the exact adjustments; the bottle of water to the mouth; the buckling of the bridle--watched her head high above the boy keeping her steady with gentle pulls of a rein in each hand held out a little wide, and now and then stroking her blazed nose; watched her pretence of nipping at his hand: he watched the beauty of her exaggerated in this half-lit isolation away from the others, the life and litheness in her satin body, the wilful expectancy in her bright soft eyes. Run a bye! This bit o’ blood--this bit o’ fire! This horse of his! Deep within that shell of blue box-cloth against the stall partition a thought declared itself: ‘I’m ---- if she shall! She can beat the lot! And she’s ---- well going to!’ The door was thrown open, and she led out. He moved alongside. They were staring at her, following her. No wonder! She was a picture, his horse--his! She had gone to ‘Jimmy’s’ head. They passed Jenning with Diamond Stud waiting to be mounted. ‘Jimmy’ shot him a look. Let the ---- wait! His mare reached the palings and was halted. ‘Jimmy’ saw the short square figure of her jockey, in the new magenta cap and jacket--_his_ cap, _his_ jacket! Beautiful they looked, and no mistake! “A word with you,” he said. The jockey halted, looked quickly round. “All right, Mr. Shrewin. No need.” ‘Jimmy’s’ eyes smouldered at him; hardly moving his lips, he said, intently: “You ---- well don’t! You’ll ---- well ride her to win. Never mind _him_! If you don’t, I’ll have you off the Turf. Understand me! You’ll ---- well ride ’er to win.” The jockey’s jaw dropped. “All right, Mr. Shrewin.” “See it is,” said ‘Jimmy’ with a hiss.... “Mount jockeys!” He saw magenta swing into the saddle. And suddenly, as if smitten with the plague, he scuttled away. VI He scuttled to where he could see them going down--seventeen. No need to search for his colours; they blazed, like George Pulcher’s countenance, or a rhododendron bush in sunlight, above that bright chestnut with the white nose, curvetting a little as she was led past. Now they came cantering--Deerstalker in the lead. “He’s a hell of a horse, Deerstalker!” said someone behind. ‘Jimmy’ cast a nervous glance around. No sign of George Pulcher! One by one they cantered past, and he watched them with a cold feeling in his stomach. Still unused to sight of the creatures out of which he made his living, they _all_ seemed to him hells of horses! The same voice said: “New colours! Well, you can see ’em, and the mare too. She’s a showy one. Calliope? She’s goin’ back in the bettin’, though.” ‘Jimmy’ moved up through the Ring. “Four to one on the field!” “Six Deerstalker!” “Sevens Magistrate!” “Ten to one Wasp!” “Ten to one Calliope!” “Four to one Diamond Stud--Four to one on the field!” Steady as a rock, that horse of Jenning, and his own going back!