He looked no longer, but hunched his shoulders, holding his elbows
stiff, that none might see what he was feeling. Behind him a man said:

"The favourite's beat. What's that in blue on the rails?"

Out by himself on the far rails, out by himself, sweeping along like a
home-coming bird, was the Ambler. And George's heart leaped, as a fish
leaps of a summer evening out of a dark pool.

"They'll never catch him. The Ambler wins! It's a walk-over! The
Ambler!"

Silent amidst the shouting throng, George thought: 'My horse! my horse!'
and tears of pure emotion sprang into his eyes. For a full minute he
stood quite still; then, instinctively adjusting hat and tie, made his
way calmly to the Paddock. He left it to his trainer to lead the Ambler
back, and joined him at the weighing-room.

The little jockey was seated, nursing his saddle, negligent and
saturnine, awaiting the words "All right."

Blacksmith said quietly:

"Well, sir, we've pulled it off. Four lengths. I've told Swells he does
no more riding for me. There's a gold-mine given away. What on earth was
he about to come in by himself like that? We shan't get into the 'City'
now under nine stone. It's enough to make a man cry!"

And, looking at his trainer, George saw the little man's lips quiver.