The old trainer frowned and shook his head mysteriously.

"You must never ask a jockey his age, no more than a woman," he said.
"He come to me the year I was married, and that's twenty year since come
Michaelmas. And when he come he looked much just the very same as he do
now. Might ha' been any age atween ten and a hundred." He dropped his
voice. "Only way he shows his years--he ain't so fond of fallin' as he
was. And I don't blame him. Round about forty a man begins to get a bit
brittle like."

He lilted off after his jockey.

Goosey Gander stood stripped of everything but his bridle, with dark
flanks and lowered head reaching at his bit.

He was a typical Woodburn horse: a great upstanding bay, full of bone
and quality. But he showed wear. A tube was in his throat, a
leather-boot on each fore-leg, and he was bandaged to the hocks, both of
which showed the serrated lines of the firing iron.

The girl in front of him pulled his sweating ears. Jim Silver watched
with admiration not untinged with awe her stern young face. She was
entirely unconscious of his gaze, and unaware of the people thronging
her. Her whole spirit was concentrated on the dark and sweating head,
trying to rub against her knees. The crowd pressed in upon her
inconveniently.

"Give the lady a chance to breathe," cried the young man in his large
and lazy voice.