Jimmy whistled softly. 'Just as well you didn't; they claim a foul for Green, and it looks bad. I wish you had been on. Williams and Gray are such duffers, and Van Souter'--a shrug of the shoulders completed his meaning effectually. 'A foul! Well, I must own it looked like one to me. What does Gordon say?' 'Looks black as thunder. Go inside and see. Most of the field swear to it; but it isn't like Gordon.' There was not much judicial serenity about the inquiry which was being made in the steward's tent; nor much of the pomp and circumstance of justice either. Nothing but a bare tent, a cane-bottomed chair or two, and the weighing-machine, where Lewis still sat listening to Dalel Beg, who was volunteering information. An Englishman in like position would have been told to hold his tongue; but what are vaguely termed political considerations affect the question in regard to the native nobility, especially at headquarters. 'I beg your pardon, I'm sure,' interrupted one of the judges diffidently; 'but if you will allow me--since the claim is made--perhaps Mr. Crosbie--that is, I think, your name, sir?--will kindly tell us what occurred.' The man in green silk bowed. He was a gentlemanly-looking man, with a suspicion of past military training in his carriage. 'I regret it excessively, and I am sure it was quite unintentional on Mr. Gordon's part, but there can be no question about the foul. As most of those present can bear me out in saying, I had taken and kept the inner place fairly. Mr. Gordon was riding for it also. At the corner post his mount was too eager, and the foul occurred. So violently that, as you see, two buttons have been almost wrenched off my breeches. I quite admit that I recovered an outside place without much delay; but I beg to remind the judges that the race was lost by a second.' 'And I beg to remind the judges,' added the Blue-and-white jacket, 'that I was on a level with Mr. Crosbie and Mr. Gordon, a little farther out, and saw the whole affair. It was not Mr. Gordon's fault; but the foul was indubitable.' 'And what have you to say about it, Mr. Gordon?' 'I?' He rose quietly and went over to Green. 'I should advise Mr. Crosbie to try benzine collas. It's the best thing I know for taking paint off breeches--doesn't stain at all. By the way, Davenant, I've often told you that is a most awkward post. It's just on the angle, and if you haven't perfect control over your beast, it is almost sure to go the wrong side, as Mr. Crosbie's did, and then, if the thing is newly painted as it is to-day you--you spoil your clothes.' He turned on his heel as he drawled out the last words and walked away. 'I utterly deny, I--I--it is impossible----' stuttered Green and Blue together.