“Twelves Calliope!” he heard, just as he reached the stand. The telepathic genius of the Ring missed nothing--almost! A cold shiver went through him. What had he done by his words to Docker? Spoiled the golden egg laid so carefully? But perhaps she couldn’t win even if they let her! He began to mount the stand, his mind in the most acute confusion. A voice said: “Hullo, Jimmy! Is she going to win?” One of his young Oxford sparks was jammed against him on the stairway! He raised his lip in a sort of snarl, and, huddling himself, slipped through and up ahead. He came out and edged in close to the stairs where he could get play for his glasses. Behind him one of those who improve the shining hour among backers cut off from opportunity was intoning the odds a point shorter than below. “Three to one on the field!” “Fives Deerstalker!” “Eight to one Wasp!” “What price Calliope?” said ‘Jimmy’ sharply. “Hundred to eight.” “Done!” Handing him the eight, he took the ticket. Behind him the man’s eyes moved fishily, and he resumed his incantation. “Three to one on the field!... Three to one on the field! Six to one Magistrate!” On the wheeling bunch of colours at the start ‘Jimmy’ trained his glasses. Something had broken clean away and come half the course--something in yellow. “Eights Magistrate. Nine to one Magistrate,” drifted up. So they had spotted that! Precious little they didn’t spot! Magistrate was round again, and being ridden back. ‘Jimmy’ rested his glasses a moment, and looked down. Swarms in the Cheap Ring, Tattersalls, the stands--a crowd so great you could lose George Pulcher in it. Just below a little man was making silent, frantic signals with his arms to someone across in the Cheap Ring. ‘Jimmy’ raised his glasses. In line now--magenta third from the rails! “They’re off!” The hush, you could cut it with a knife! Something in green away on the right--Wasp! What a bat they were going! And a sort of numbness in ‘Jimmy’s’ mind cracked suddenly; his glasses shook; his thin, weasley face became suffused and quivered. Magenta--magenta--two from the rails! He could make no story of the race such as he would read in to-morrow’s paper--he could see nothing but magenta. Out of the dip now, and coming fast--green still leading--something in violet, something in tartan, closing. “Wasp’s beat!” “The favourite--the favourite wins!” “Deerstalker--Deerstalker wins! What’s that in pink on the rails?” It was _his_ in pink on the rails! Behind him a man went suddenly mad. “Deerstalker! Come on with ’im, Stee! Deerstalker’ll win--Deerstalker’ll win!” ‘Jimmy’ sputtered venomously: “Will ’e? Will ’e?” Deerstalker and his own out from the rest--opposite the Cheap Ring--neck and neck--Docker riding like a demon. “Deerstalker! Deerstalker!” “Calliope wins! She wins!” Gawd! His horse! They flashed past--fifty yards to go, and not a head between ’em! “Deerstalker! Deerstalker!” “Calliope!” He saw his mare shoot out--she’d won!