CHAPTER XIX
Cannibal's National
Old Mat sat dumped in familiar attitude on a cob as full of corners and character as himself.
The trainer was thumping mechanically with his heels, sucking at the knob of his ash-plant, his legs in trousers that had slipped up to show his gray socks, and his feet shod with elastic-sided boots.
He glanced shrewdly at the pair as they rode up.
"Good morning, sir," he said, touching his hat. "So Chukkers has chucked you."
"So I believe," answered Silver.
"I wep' a tear when they tell me. I did reelly," said the old man, dabbing his eye. "He's goin' to ride Ikey's Jackaroo—that donkey-coloured waler he brought home from Back o' Sunday. That's what he's after."
Silver nodded.
"I'm not altogether sorry," he said quietly. "And I'm not entirely surprised."