In his stall, streaked with sweat, his hind-legs outstretched, fretting
under the ministrations of the groom, the Ambler stayed the whisking
of his head to look at his owner, and once more George met that
long, proud, soft glance. He laid his gloved hand on the horse's
lather-flecked neck. The Ambler tossed his head and turned it away.

George came out into the open, and made his way towards the Stand. His
trainer's words had instilled a drop of poison into his cup. "A goldmine
given away!"

He went up to Swells. On his lips were the words: "What made you give
the show away like that?" He did not speak them, for in his soul he felt
it would not become him to ask his jockey why he had not dissembled and
won by a length. But the little jockey understood at once.

"Mr. Blacksmith's been at me, sir. You take my tip: he's a queer one,
that 'orse. I thought it best to let him run his own race. Mark my
words, he knows what's what. When they're like that, they're best let
alone."

A voice behind him said:

"Well, George, congratulate you! Not the way I should have ridden the
race myself. He should have lain off to the distance. Remarkable turn of
speed that horse. There's no riding nowadays!"

The Squire and General Pendyce were standing there. Erect and slim,
unlike and yet so very much alike, the eyes of both of them seemed
saying: