The Downs even now showed an animated appearance. A few hours more and the great race-trains would pour their thousands upon thousands to swell the throng. Gipsies and tramps, pickpockets, all sorts of undesirables had camped on the Downs or tramped from London. Cocoanut-shies were going up, costers' barrows arriving, and gingerbeer stalls materialising themselves. Just outside the house Mr. French met Moriarty.
"The horse is all right, Moriarty?" asked French.
"Yes, sorr, right as rain and fresh as paint. You needn't be unaisy, sorr. Barrin' the visitation of Heaven, he'll win."
"If Garryowen wins," said French, "I'll win sixty-five thousand pounds, and if he doesn't, begad, I'm beggared."
"He's nothin' to fear, sorr, but Wheel of Fortune," said Moriarty. "I've been lookin' and listenin' and talkin' ever since I came down, and it's my opinion there's nothin' here to give its heels to Garryowen, and if you'll let me give you a bit of advice, sorr, it's this: Go for a walk, and don't bother your head about the matther. Major Lawson is lookin' afther everythin', and me and Andy will pull everythin' through."
"I know, I know," said French. "You'll do everything you can. Well, there's no use worrying. I'll do what you say."
He took Moriarty's horny hand and shook it. Then turning, he walked off over the Downs.
* * * * * * *
It was twenty minutes or so before the race. A hundred thousand people lined the course and filled the air with the hum of a British crowd on a race day, which is different from the sound emitted by any other crowd on earth.
Mr. French, whose nervous agitation had utterly vanished, was entering the paddock when someone touched his arm. It was Bobby Dashwood.