Already the little scene had attracted some attention, although it was only among the immediate bystanders. But these, if they expected a fight, were doomed to disappointment. Jack stood scowling, then muttering "This isn't the place for a scrap; but I'll be even with you, for God I will!" he slipped his hand under Rada's arm and unceremoniously bustled her away.
The onlookers, robbed of their fun, growled disapproval and dispersed likewise. One of them, however, whom Mostyn had not noticed before, since he had kept himself well in the background, remained. Mostyn recognised the evil and malicious face of the jockey, Ted Wilson.
The little man was dressed as Mostyn had seen him the night before. He wore the same tightly-fitting covert coat with big shiny pearl buttons, but he had replaced the cap by a bowler hat, pressed down well on the back of his head.
"I wish 'e'd gone for yer!" Wilson muttered between his teeth, drawing a few steps nearer. "I wish 'e'd thrashed yer, Gawd 'elp me I do!"
This was a fresh attack, and one which Mostyn had not expected. He supposed the jockey was still incensed because his proposition had been refused, and, not desiring any further discussion on the subject, he turned away without deigning a reply. Wilson, however, followed at his heels, yapping and snarling like a mongrel cur. "A low down trick you played me," he muttered. "What did you want to do it for? The Lord knows I 'aven't done you no 'arm. But to give a chap away and get 'im the sack—why, you ought to be bloomin' well ashamed of yerself!"
Mostyn turned at this. "What on earth do you mean?" he asked.
"Why," screeched the indignant little man, "just listen to 'im! As if 'e didn't know! Wot should I 'av got the sack for if you 'adn't split to my boss? Given me the chuck without a word of explanation, 'e 'as, and not more'n a couple of hours ago. Why should 'e 'ave done it if you 'adn't rounded on me? D—— 'im for a dirty Jew! and d—— you too for——"
The jockey's language was charged with strange oaths, and there was a lurid monotony about his epithets. However, he appeared to have a grievance, and that being so, some explanation seemed due to him. The refinement of Mostyn's speech sounded almost ridiculous when taken in conjunction with that of the jockey.
"I assure you that you are absolutely mistaken if you think that I have had anything to do with your discharge, since I understand that you have been discharged. This is the first I have heard of it, and I have not the smallest idea why Mr. Isaacson should have acted so."
"You're a liar!" retorted Wilson. "Is it likely that Isaacson would have sacked me, an' put up a chap like Jones, who may lose the race for 'im, if 'e 'adn't thought that I might ride crook? Do yer think I don't see through yer little game?" His narrow eyes sparkled with spite and malice as he stared up into Mostyn's face. "Got me the chuck, yer did, so that Don Quixote might be handicapped and yer own 'orse 'ave a better charnce! Oh, you're a sharp 'un, you are, but, strike me pink! I'll be even with yer for it, Mr. Clithero, sir, if not to-day, then some other time. Ted Wilson ain't the man not to get a bit of 'is own back, you can bet your bottom dollar on that. My friend, Jack Treves"—he accented the words—"'as got 'is knife into yer, too, I see, and between the pair of us I'll lay you come off bad in the end."