With a little queer sound he squirmed and wriggled on to the stairs. No thoughts while he squeezed, and slid, and hurried--only emotion--out of the Ring, away to the paddock. His horse! Docker had weighed in when he reached the mare. All right! He passed with a grin. ‘Jimmy’ turned almost into the body of Polman standing like an image. “Well, Mr. Shrewin,” he said to nobody, “she’s won.” ‘Damn you!’ thought ‘Jimmy.’ ‘Damn the lot of you!’ And he went up to his mare. Quivering, streaked with sweat, impatient of the gathering crowd, she showed the whites of her eyes when he put his hand up to her nose. “Good girl!” he said, and watched her led away. ‘Gawd! I want a drink!’ he thought. Gingerly, keeping a sharp lookout for Pulcher, he returned to the stand to get it, and to draw his hundred. But up there by the stairs the discreet fellow was no more. On the ticket was the name O. H. Jones, and nothing else. ‘Jimmy’ Shrewin had been welshed! He went down at last in a bad temper. At the bottom of the staircase stood George Pulcher. The big man’s face was crimson, his eyes ominous. He blocked ‘Jimmy’ into a corner. “Ah!” he said. “You little crow! What the ’ell made you speak to Docker?” ‘Jimmy’ grinned. Some new body within him stood there defiant. “She’s my ’orse,” he said. “You ---- Gawd-forsaken rat! If I ’ad you in a quiet spot, I’d shake the life out of you!” ‘Jimmy’ stared up, his little spindle legs apart, like a cock-sparrow confronting an offended pigeon. “Go ’ome,” he said, “George Pulcher; and get your mother to mend your socks. You don’t know ’ow! Thought I wasn’t a man, did you? Well, now you ---- well know I am. Keep off my ’orse in future.” Crimson rushed up on crimson in Pulcher’s face; he raised his heavy fists. ‘Jimmy’ stood, unmoving, his little hands in his bell-coat pockets, his withered face upraised. The big man gulped as if swallowing back the tide of blood; his fists edged forward and then--dropped. “That’s better,” said ‘Jimmy,’ “hit one of your own size.” Emitting a deep growl, George Pulcher walked away. “Two to one on the field--I’ll back the field--Two to one on the field.” “Threes Snowdrift--Fours Iron Dook.” ‘Jimmy’ stood a moment mechanically listening to the music of his life; then, edging out, he took a fly and was driven to the station. All the way up to town he sat chewing his cheroot with the glow of drink inside him, thinking of that finish, and of how he had stood up to George Pulcher. For a whole day he was lost in London, but Friday saw him once more at his seat of custom in the ‘Corn.’ Not having laid against his horse, he had had a good race in spite of everything; yet, the following week, uncertain into what further quagmires of quixotry she might lead him, he sold Calliope.