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."

'You carrion crow!' thought George.

"Thanks; he's not for sale," he answered.

He went back to the stand, but at every step and in each face, he seemed
to see the equation which now he could only solve with X2. Thrice he
went into the bar. It was on the last of these occasions that he said to
himself: "The horse must go. I shall never have a horse like him again."

Over that green down which a hundred thousand feet had trodden
brown, which a hundred thousand hands had strewn with bits of paper,
cigar-ends, and the fragments of discarded food, over the great
approaches to the battlefield, where all was pathway leading to and
from the fight, those who make livelihood in such a fashion, least
and littlest followers, were bawling, hawking, whining to the warriors
flushed with victory or wearied by defeat: Over that green down, between
one-legged men and ragged acrobats, women with babies at the breast,
thimble-riggers, touts, walked George Pendyce, his mouth hard set and
his head bent down.

"Good luck, Captain, good luck to-morrow; good luck, good luck!... For
the love of Gawd, your lordship!... Roll, bowl, or pitch!"

The sun, flaming out after long hiding, scorched the back of his neck;
the free down wind, fouled by foetid odours, brought to his ears the
monster's last cry, "They're off!"

A voice hailed