“The favourite's beat! No, he's not, by Jove!” For as though George's groan had found its way to the jockey's ears, he dropped his whip. The Ambler sprang forward. George saw that he was gaining. All his soul went out to his horse's struggle. In each of those fifteen seconds he died and was born again; with each stride all that was loyal and brave in his nature leaped into flame, all that was base sank, for he himself was racing with his horse, and the sweat poured down his brow. And his lips babbled broken sounds that no one heard, for all around were babbling too. Locked together, the Ambler and straw ran home. Then followed a hush, for no one knew which of the two had won. The numbers went up “Seven-Two-Five.” “The favourite's second! Beaten by a nose!” said a voice. George bowed his head, and his whole spirit felt numb. He closed his glasses and moved with the crowd to the stairs. A voice behind him said: “He'd have won in another stride!” Another answered: “I hate that sort of horse. He curled up at the whip.” George ground his teeth. “Curse you!” he muttered, “you little Cockney; what do you know about a horse?” The crowd surged; the speakers were lost to sight. The long descent from the stand gave him time. No trace of emotion showed on his face when he appeared in the paddock. Blacksmith the trainer stood by the Ambler's stall. “That idiot Tipping lost us the race, sir,” he began with quivering lips. “If he'd only left him alone, the horse would have won in a canter. What on earth made him use his whip? He deserves to lose his license. He----” The gall and bitterness of defeat surged into George's brain. “It's no good your talking, Blacksmith,” he said; “you put him up. What the devil made you quarrel with Swells?” The little man's chin dropped in sheer surprise. George turned away, and went up to the jockey, but at the sick look on the poor youth's face the angry words died off his tongue. “All right, Tipping; I'm not going to rag you.” And with the ghost of a smile he passed into the Ambler's stall. The groom had just finished putting him to rights; the horse stood ready to be led from the field of his defeat. The groom moved out, and George went to the Ambler's head. There is no place, no corner, on a racecourse where a man may show his heart. George did but lay his forehead against the velvet of his horse's muzzle, and for one short second hold it there. The Ambler awaited the end of that brief caress, then with a snort threw up his head, and with his wild, soft eyes seemed saying, 'You fools! what do you know of me?' George stepped to one side. “Take him away,” he said, and his eyes followed the Ambler's receding form. A racing-man of a different race, whom he knew and did not like, came up to him as he left the paddock. “I suppothe you won't thell your horse, Pendythe?” he said. “I'll give you five thou. for him. He ought never to have lotht; the beating won't help him with the handicappers a little bit.”