Picton was flattered; this was high praise indeed; the steward was one of the best judges of racing in the land.
Fred managed to take the saddle off and walked with unsteady steps to the weighing room. He sat in the chair with a bump. The clerk at the scales looked at him.
"You're ill, Fred," he said.
The jockey nodded; he would not have been surprised had they told him he was dying. He got up from the scales, and Banks, the rider of Ripon, dropped his saddle and caught him as he fell forward in a faint.
"All right," was called.
Brant came forward; he and Picton carried him outside. A doctor came, ordered him to be taken to the hospital at once, and thither he was conveyed, Picton accompanying him.
When Fred came to, he said to Picton, with a faint smile: "Don't stay here; I'm all right. I did feel bad; I don't know how I stuck on. She's a wonder; she won the race on her own, and carried a log of wood on her back. I was quite as useless; I could not help her at all."
"You are sure you do not wish me to stay?"
"Quite," said Fred. "I shall probably be on the course to-morrow."
"What's the matter with him, doctor?" asked Picton, when they were in the consulting room.