‘Jimmy’ jumped down. Whatever that fellow had to say, he meant to hear. It was his horse! Narrowly avoiding the hoofs of his hot, fidgeting mare, he said sharply:
“What about it?”
Polman never looked you in the face; his speech came as if not intended to be heard by anyone:
“Tell Mr. Shrewin how she went.”
“Had a bit up my sleeve. If I’d hit her a smart one, I could ha’ landed by a length or more.”
“That so?” said ‘Jimmy’ with a hiss. “Well, don’t you hit her; she don’t want hittin’. You remember that.”
The boy said sulkily: “All right!”
“Take her home,” said Polman. Then, with that reflective averted air of his, he added: “She was carrying eight stone, Mr. Shrewin; you’ve got a good one there. She’s The Hangman at level weights.”
Something wild leaped up in ‘Jimmy’—The Hangman’s form unrolled itself before him in the air—he had a horse—he dam’ well had a horse!