"He's to look after Chukkers, I suppose," said the yard-man grimly, pleased at his own generosity, well satisfied with his wit, and fairly so with Albert's tribute to it.
"He's to look after my horse," said Boy resolutely.
"He looks he could look after himself, Miss," replied the witty yard-man.
"So he can, sir, with you to help him," said the swift and tactful Albert.
The yard-man, who could tell you stories of Boomerang's National, and Cannibal's victory, that not even Monkey Brand could surpass, knew of old the feeling between Putnam's and the Dewhurst stable, and had placed the boxes of the two horses far apart.
All through the week the excitement grew.
The Sefton Arms was seething; the bar a slowly heaving mass of racing-men, jockeys, touts, habitués.
Once or twice there were rows between Ikey's Own—the Yankee doodlers, as the local wits called them—and the English silver-ring bookies; and the cause of the quarrels was invariably the same—the treatment of the mare at last year's National.
Throughout the week Boy went her quiet, strenuous way, unconscious of the commotion about her, or careless of it.