"They'll never get 'im 'ome. He's goin' to lay down and die when 'e strikes the road—ain't you, beauty? And I don't blame 'im neether."
"He ain't though. They won't let him. That old 'orse has got to take the washin' round when he gets back to Cuckmere this evenin'."
Goosey Gander was harnessed now.
Old Mat made slowly toward the buggy.
The crowd, which had been popping off its feu-de-joie of jokes, steadied into silence to watch the old man climb to his seat.
"Someone to see you, Mr. Woodburn," came a voice in the silence.
"Indeed," panted the old man, his heavy shoulders rising and falling. "Who's that?"
There was a movement in the crowd, which parted. At the farther end of the lane thus made, a flashy young gypsy was seen, with a somnolent old mare on a halter.
"There, Mr. Woodburn!" called the gypsy in a hoarse staccato voice. "There she is—your sort to the tick. Black Death blood. Throw you a National winner and all."
The old man cast his shrewd blue eye over the mare.