"He ain't ridin'," muttered Old Mat, watching closely through his glasses—"not yet. I won't say that. But he's spinnin' her."
Indeed it was so. The crowd saw it; the Boys, gnawing their thumbs, saw it; the bookies, red-faced from screaming, saw it, too.
The crowd bellowed their comments.
"She's held!"
"The mare's beat!"
"Brown's only cantering!"
"She's all out!"
In all that riot of voices, and storm of tossing figures, two men kept calm.
Old Mat was genial; Silver still, his chest heaving beneath his folded arms.
"Like a hare and a greyhound," muttered the old man, apt as always.