"No, ma'am. That he ain't," said the polished little gentleman. "You're his mother—from Sacramento. Anyone could see that by the likeness. You're the spit of each other, if I might make so bold. And I'm sure," said the orator, "speakin' on be'alf of all present, meself included, we feel honoured by the presence in our umble midst of the mother of the famous 'orseman—Chukkers Childers."
In the silence the speaker resumed his seat.
The lady addressed was too busy to reply.
She was taking off her drab coat, her picture hat, and her pig-tail, and she was spitting in her hands.
Soaping them together, she came to the edge of the platform.
"Shall I come down and give it you?" she asked. "Or will you come up and fetch it?"
"Neever, thank you," said Jerry, puffing imperturbably.
Albert jumped down.
"You're for it, Jerry," said Stanley, glad it was his friend's turn this time.
"Not me," Jerry replied. "No scrappin' Sunday. Miss Boy's orders."