Mostyn had but a dim understanding of all this, but his heart leapt within him when Pierce came up, and smiting him cordially on the back, carried him off to wish good luck to Sir Roderick, who was standing by the side of his horse in the company of Joseph Dean, the famous trainer, and of Fred Martin, the jockey, who held the record of winning mounts for the year before. Martin wore Sir Roderick's colours--silver and scarlet--and his little twinkling eyes glittered as he confided to Mostyn that he was proud to wear them, and that he had every confidence in his horse--that he hoped to score his fifth Derby success. Mostyn felt in the seventh heaven, a privileged being, all the more so since envious eyes were upon him. It was all he could do to hold himself with becoming gravity. His great desire was to pose as a man of experience, but, at the same time, there were so many questions he wished to ask. And at last his evil genius impelled him to an ineptitude, one of those blunders that seemed to come so easily to his tongue: he wanted to know Hipponous's age! Something in the jockey's stare as he made answer warned Mostyn of danger, and he moved away as soon as he dared. "That's 'Ipponous, ain't it?" An ungrammatical stranger, who, in spite of his horsey attire, was evidently but poorly informed, pushed his way to Mostyn's side. "A fine horse--what?" "I should think so," responded the young man heartily. "An Irish horse; comes from Sir Roderick Macphane's stables in Ulster. Trained by Joseph Dean here at Epsom." Mostyn felt on safe ground in giving this information. "Ah!" The stranger leered out of the corner of his eye. "I dessay you know a bit, what? I see you talking to Martin just now. What does Martin think of his mount?" "Why, he says"--Mostyn got no further, for luckily at that moment Anthony Royce appeared, and, laying his hand upon his young friend's arm gently led him away, very much to the annoyance of the stranger. "Be careful of affable folk who try to get into conversation with you on the race-course," was all the reproach that Royce uttered; but Mostyn felt that he had been about to blunder, and once more anathematised himself for a fool. The American did not lose sight of his young _protégé_ again after that, but devoted himself to his work of instruction. Mostyn absorbed knowledge eagerly. "I asked Martin how old his horse was," he was constrained to admit. Royce's sides shook with silent laughter. "Never mind," he said. "You'll know better next time." Then he went on to explain about betting, and how easily the market may be affected. "If you want to have a bet," he added, "I'll introduce you in the right quarter. You can't do better than back Hipponous to win and a place. He'll start at four to one. I don't believe in the favourite, though it's money on." But Mostyn shook his head. "I don't want to bet," he said. "Gambling doesn't attract me a bit. It's just the sport of the thing."