She sauntered past him, and seemed even ready for a chat.

Never slow to seize a chance, the fat man closed with her at once.

“How goes it, Miss Woodburn?” he said.

“Very well, thank you.”

“So you’re going to win the National?”

“Are we?”

“He’s good enough, isn’t he?”

The girl shrugged her shoulders.

“Who’s going to ride him?”

“Albert, I suppose,” replied the girl casually.  “There’s nobody else.”

“Not Monkey Brand?”

She shook her head.

“Too old,” she said.

“Will he gallop for Albert?” asked the other.

“Depends on his mood,” replied the girl.

The fat man laughed.

“There’s only one person he will gallop for—­certain,” he said.

Boy looked away.

“Who’s that?” nonchalantly.

Joses bowed and smirked and became very gallant.

Flattery never moved the girl to anything but resentment.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Pity you can’t,” pursued the other.

“Yes,” she said.  “I should have liked the ride.”

His roaming eye settled on her.

“You’d have won, too,” he said with assurance.

“Think so?”

“I’m sure so,” he answered.  “You’ve only One against you.”

“Perhaps,” she admitted.  “But the One’s a caution.”

“A good big un’ll always beat a good little un,” said the fat man.

“Besides, he’s a baby,” replied the girl.  “Chances his fences too much.”

“Sprawls a bit,” admitted the other.  “But he jumps so big it doesn’t make much odds.  And he gets away like a deer.”

* * * * *

Joses was now very much alert; and he had to be.  For, as he reported to
Jaggers, Putnam’s gave away as little as a dead man in the dark.

One thing, however, became clear as the time slipped away and the National drew ever nearer:  that to the girl had been entrusted the winding up of the young horse, and Albert was her henchman in the matter.

Monkey was the fat man’s informant on the point.  Joses would never have believed the little jockey for a moment, but that his own eyes daily confirmed the report.

The window of his room looked out over the Paddock Close, and every morning, before the world was astir, while the dew was still heavy on the grass, the earth reeking, and the mists thick in the coombes, the great sheeted horse, who marched like a Highland regiment and looked like a mountain ram, was to be seen swinging up the hill on to the Downs.

There were two little figures always with him:  one riding, one trotting at his side.  Seen across the Close at that hour in the morning, there was no distinguishing between the two.  Both were slight, bare-headed, fair; and both were dressed much alike.  So much might be seen, and little more at that distance.