Ben Sprig was to ride the Saint; a good jockey with a reputation for honesty. He was a miniature man, about thirty-five, capable of riding seven stone if necessary. His face was a study. Ben Sprig seldom smiled outwardly; he seemed to conceal all expressions of joy inside his small frame, and the only signs of pleasure experienced were sundry chuckles that sounded like the cracking of nuts. He spoke jerkily, shooting out his words like darts, and taking time to consider between each one. His complexion was bronze, and his eyes were small and brown. He had beautifully-shaped small hands and feet, of which he was very proud. He was dapper in his dress, and always clean and spruce. His humour was proverbial, and as he always had a solemn countenance it proved the more effective. A man who laughs at his own jokes is like an advertiser who stares at his own advertisements. There was none of the advertising agent about Ben Sprig.
"Where's Ben?" asked May, as the bell rang.
"I'll hunt him up," said Ulick, as he hurried off towards the jockey's room.
Ben Sprig was a thorn in the side of all clerks of the course. They invariably had to hurry him up, and in nine cases out of ten he was always the last to leave the paddock. He had a habit of sneaking his mount up the course when the majority of the spectators thought all the horses were at the post.
"Come along, Ben," said Ulick. "I never saw such a fellow, you are always last."
"Leaving the paddock," said Ben, solemnly.
Ulick laughed as he replied, "Not always in that position at the finish, I grant you."
Ben was walking slowly along, the olive green jacket adopted by Ulick being almost hidden beneath a coat which came down to the heels of his boots.
Ulick was striding along in front; the clerk of the course gesticulating furiously at Ben, who took no notice whatever of him.
"Hurry up," he said, as he rode up to the jockey. "You're always last, I wonder you are not fined every time for being late at the post."