It was a pretty piece of bluff. Boy Woodburn, in spite of her anger,
marked it down to the credit side of the lad's account. When he was
collared, Albert Edward kept his head. That would help him one day when
he was caught in a squeeze in a big race and had to jockey to get
through.

The roar from the crowd told her the race had started. She flashed back
to the ropes, a slight figure, in simple blue serge, the radiant plait
of her hair flapping as she ran.

Old Mat, standing a little behind the crowd at the ropes, had watched
the scene.

"One o' my lads," he said in his mysterious wheeze to the big young man
at his side. "'No smokin', swearin', or bettin' in _my_ stable!'--that's
Miss Boy's rule. Gets it from Mar." The girl passed them swiftly and the
old man hid his betting-book behind him. "Well, Boy, sossed him?" he
asked innocently.

"He's not the only one," retorted the girl.

"O, I'm not bettin', Boy," pleaded the old man in the whimsical whine
which he adopted when addressing his daughter. "Don't go and tell your
mother that now. It wouldn't be right. Reelly it wouldn't. I'm only
makin' a note or two for Mr. Silver here."

The girl was lost in the crowd by the ropes.

"She'd ha' come and sossed me, too, only you was with me," wheezed the
old man confidentially. "You stick close to me, there's a dear. You're