"Miss Woodburn rode the winner, my lord," answered the trainer at the top of his voice.
The words ran like a flame along the top of the crowd.
They leapt from mouth to mouth, out of the Paddock, on to the course, and round it. And where they fell there was instant hush followed by a roar, in which a new note sounded: All was not lost. The Americans, cast down to earth a moment since, rose like a wild-maned breaker towering before it falls in thunder and foam upon the beach. There was wrath still in their clamour; but their cry now was for Justice and not for Revenge.
John Bull had been at it again. The fair jockey was a girl. Some had known it all along. Others had guessed it from the first. All had been sure there would be hanky-panky.
As they came shoving off the course into the Paddock, and heaved about the weighing-room, the howl subdued into a buzz as of a swarm of angry bees.
The thousands were waiting for a sign, and the growl that rose from them was broken only by groans, cat-calls, whistles, and vengeful bursts of
Hands off and no hanky-panky!
Old Mat, Jim Silver, and the great horse stood on the edge of the throng, quite unconcerned.
Many noticed them; not a few essayed enquiries.
"Is your jockey a gal, Mr. Woodburn?"