"We've come up through the heavy weights," said Captain Spicer; "the
twelve-stone horses will look like rats--" He stopped.

They had arrived at the section in which figured "No. 548. Miss F.
Fitzroy's 'Gamble,' grey mare; 4 years, by Grey Dawn," and opposite
them was stall No. 548. In it stood the Connemara filly, or rather
something that might have been her astral body. A more spectral,
deplorable object could hardly be imagined. Her hind quarters had fallen
in, her hips were standing out; her ribs were like the bars of a grate;
her head, hung low before her, was turned so that one frightened eye
scanned the passers-by, and she propped her fragile form against the
partition of her stall, as though she were too weak to stand up.

To say that Fanny Fitz's face fell is to put it mildly. As she described
it to Mrs. Spicer, it fell till it was about an inch wide and five miles
long. Captain Spicer was speechless. Freddy alone was equal to demanding
of Patsey Crimmeen what had happened to the mare.

"Begor, Masther Freddy, it's a wonder she's alive at all!" replied
Patsey, who was now perceived to be looking but little better than the
filly. "She was middlin' quiet in the thrain, though she went to lep out
o' the box with the first screech the engine give, but I quietened her
some way, and it wasn't till we got into the sthreets here that she went
mad altogether. Faith, I thought she was into the river with me three
times! 'Twas hardly I got her down the quays; and the first o' thim
alecthric thrams she seen! Look at me hands, sir! She had me swingin'
on the rope the way ye'd swing a flail. I tell you, Masther Freddy, them
was the ecstasies!"

Patsey paused and gazed with a gloomy pride into the stricken faces of