The great horse who had been sparring with the air as the flag fell came down from aloft and got going a long six lengths behind the field.
Neither he nor his rider seemed the least concerned.
"That's my little beauty," muttered Old Mat. "He'll start his own time, he will. Maybe to-day; maybe to-morrow; maybe not at all. One thing, though: he has started."
The brown horse was pulling out to the right to lie on the outside.
The old trainer nodded approvingly.
"That's right, my boy," he said. "You let 'em rattle 'emselves to bits, while you lays easy behind. There'll be plenty o' room in front in a moment or two."
An old hand in a white top-hat just in front turned round.
"That lad o' yours rides cunning, Mr. Woodburn," he said.
"He's a fair card, he is," replied the old man enigmatically.
"Was it deliberate?" asked an ingenious youth.