The jockey’s jaw dropped.
“All right, Mr. Shrewin.”
“See it is,” said ‘Jimmy’ with a hiss....
“Mount jockeys!”
He saw magenta swing into the saddle. And suddenly, as if smitten with the plague, he scuttled away.
VI
He scuttled to where he could see them going down—seventeen. No need to search for his colours; they blazed, like George Pulcher’s countenance, or a rhododendron bush in sunlight, above that bright chestnut with the white nose, curvetting a little as she was led past.
Now they came cantering—Deerstalker in the lead.
“He’s a hell of a horse, Deerstalker!” said someone behind.
‘Jimmy’ cast a nervous glance around. No sign of George Pulcher!