The crowd surged; the speakers were lost to sight.
The long descent from the stand gave him time. No trace of emotion showed on his face when he appeared in the paddock. Blacksmith the trainer stood by the Ambler's stall.
“That idiot Tipping lost us the race, sir,” he began with quivering lips. “If he'd only left him alone, the horse would have won in a canter. What on earth made him use his whip? He deserves to lose his license. He——”
The gall and bitterness of defeat surged into George's brain.
“It's no good your talking, Blacksmith,” he said; “you put him up. What the devil made you quarrel with Swells?”
The little man's chin dropped in sheer surprise.
George turned away, and went up to the jockey, but at the sick look on the poor youth's face the angry words died off his tongue.
“All right, Tipping; I'm not going to rag you.” And with the ghost of a smile he passed into the Ambler's stall. The groom had just finished putting him to rights; the horse stood ready to be led from the field of his defeat. The groom moved out, and George went to the Ambler's head. There is no place, no corner, on a racecourse where a man may show his heart. George did but lay his forehead against the velvet of his horse's muzzle, and for one short second hold it there. The Ambler awaited the end of that brief caress, then with a snort threw up his head, and with his wild, soft eyes seemed saying, 'You fools! what do you know of me?'
George stepped to one side.
“Take him away,” he said, and his eyes followed the Ambler's receding form.