It was misty on the Downs—fine weather mist of a bright October. The three horses became spectral on their way to the starting-point. Polman had thrown The Parrot in again, but this time he made no secret of the weights. The Shirker was carrying eight seven, Calliope eight, The Parrot seven stone.
Once more, in the cart, with his glasses sweeping the bright mist, ‘Jimmy’ had that pit-patting in his heart. Here they came! His mare leading—all riding hard—a genuine finish! They passed—The Shirker beaten a clear length, with the Parrot at his girth. Beside him in the cart, George Pulcher mumbled:
“She’s The Shirker at eight stone four, Jimmy!”
A silent drive back to the river inn, big with thought; a silent breakfast. Over a tankard at the close the oracle spoke.
“The Shirker, at eight stone four, is a good ’ot chance, but no cert, Jimmy. We’ll let ’em know this trial quite open, weights and all. That’ll bring her in the betting. And we’ll watch Diamond Stud. If he drops back we’ll know Jenning thinks he can’t beat us now. If Diamond Stud stands up we’ll know Jenning thinks he’s still got our mare safe. Then our line’ll be clear: we lay off the lot, pick up a thousand or so, and ’ave the mare in at a nice weight at Liverpool.”
‘Jimmy’s’ smudged-in eyes stared hungrily.
“How’s that?” he said. “Suppose she wins?”
“Wins! If we lay off the lot, she won’t win.”
“Pull her!”
George Pulcher’s voice sank half an octave with disgust.