"Not so bad, sir," the other answered. "Tidy drop o dew, I reck'n."
Make-Way-There, now she had the lead, showed a tendency to swagger. She bounced and tossed. The fair lad, swaying to the motions of his horse, rode the fretting creature patiently and well.
"She's a bit okkud yet," said Monkey, watching critically. "Woa, my lady. Woa then."
"It's the condition comin' out of her," muttered Mat. "She's all of a bubble. Fret herself into a sweat. Boy, you'd better take her. Send her along five furlongs smart and bustle her a bit as she comes up the slope."
"No," said the girl.
The old man threw a swift glance at her.
Boy had stuck her toes in again. He knew all the symptoms of old and made no effort to overcome them. She was growing into a woman, Boy was. That was the young man. A while back she cared not a rap for all the men in creation.
The old man made a mental note for reference to Ma.
"Albert can ride her," said the girl. "I want to see if he's coming on."
Jerry, the true prophet, winked; Stanley jobbed the black in the mouth and kicked him; Albert, his face firm and important, drew out. He had at least one of the qualities of a jockey—supreme self-confidence.