n the chain. He did not know how to treat a lady, and was impervious
to scratches that would have taught one less shaggy. He was rough, and
no gentleman.

Maudie herself had the manners of an aristocrat of fiction. She walked
through life, curling a contumelious lip, unshaken by the passions,
aloof from the struggles, high above the emotions that stir and beset
the creatures of the dust. In Maudie's estimation Billy Bluff was a
bounder. Certainly he bounded, and like most bounders he conceived of
himself quite falsely as a funny fellow.

Brooding on her grievances, Maudie strolled thoughtfully across the
yard, one eye always on her enemy, timing herself to be on the top of
the wall just a second before the M.-w.-M. was free to bound.

"Shut up, you ass!" said the girl as she released the bob-tail.

He was away with a roar, scattering the fan-tails, as he launched on his
way to exchange jibes with Maudie, languid, secure, and insolent on the
top of the wall.

The girl went to the saddle-room, took down her saddle and bridle, and
turned into the stable.

For once she was not the first.

Monkey Brand was before her, standing at the head of a now familiar
chestnut pony, waiting, saddled, on the pillar-reins.

"Is Mr. Silver down?" the girl asked, surprised.

"Yes, Miss. Came late last night. Down for the week-end, I believe. He's
goin' for a stretch before he looks at the 'orses," the little jockey
informed her. "They're goin' to gallop Make-Way-There this morning."

"Are they?" said the girl sharply.

It was rarely anything took place in the stable without her knowledge.
And Make-Way-There, who was one of Mr. Silver's horses, was to run at
the Paris Meeting two weeks hence.

The girl, to hide her resentment, placed her hand on the pony's neck,
hard as marble beneath a skin that was soft to the touch as a mole's.

"Ain't he a little clinker?" said Monkey Brand in hushed voice. "They
say Mr. Silver refused L600 for him at Hurlingham. And he took champion
at the Poly Pony Show."

The girl's hand travelled down the pony's neck with firm, strong,
rhythmical stroke.

"Heart of Oak!" she purred affectionately.

Ragamuffin, the old roan pony in the next stall, began to move, restless
and irritable.

"He's jealous, is old Rags," smiled Monkey.

The girl went to the roan.

"Now, then, old man," she said. "Old friends first."

She saddled him and led him out into the yard.

Attached to the d's of the light