There, too, of course, was Mat's American buggy, a spidery concern, made
to the old man's design, seated like a double dog-cart, and looking
amongst the solid carts and carriages that flanked it like a ghost
amongst mortals. It was the most observed vehicle of them all, partly
because of its unusual make and shape, and partly because that was the
famous shay in which year after year Mat drove over the Downs from
Putnam's behind the horse with which he meant to win the Hunters'
Steeplechase.

That race, always the last item on the programme, and the most
looked-for, was about to begin.

The quality in the Paddock were climbing to their places in the wagons.
The voices of the bookies were raised vociferously. The crowd jostled
about them, eager to back Old Mat's old horse, Goosey Gander. They
believed in the old man's luck, they believed in the old man's horse,
they believed in the old man's jockey, Monkey Brand, almost as famous
locally as his master.

A boy slipped into the Paddock and began to bet surreptitiously behind
the dressing-tent.

He was fair, slight, and horsey. His stiff, tight choker, his horse-shoe
pin, the cut of his breeches, his alert and wary air of a man of the
world, all betrayed the racing-lad. From the corner of his mouth hung a
cigarette waggishly a-rake; and his billycock had just the correct and
knowing cock. He kept well under the lee of the tent; and if he was
brazen, it was clear that he was sinning and fearful of discovery: for
he had one eye always on the watch for the Avenging Angel who might
swoop down on him at any moment.