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The trainer nodded quietly at the heavy figure in front. "He's out," he wheezed. "On to it pretty quick, too. Heard we're goin' to gallop Fo'-Pound and he's come to see what he can see." The man drew to one side to let the riders pass. It was Joses; and he had changed. There was less of the sow and more of the wolf about him than of old.
There's Monkey Brand down on his knees to me for the mount; and he don't go so bad with Monkey Brand when he's that way inclined. But I don't know what to say." His efforts successfully ended, he lifted a round and crimson face. "See where it is, Mr. Silver; Monkey Brand's forty-five, and his ridin' days are pretty nigh over. He reckons he can just about win on Fo'-Pound and then retire.
"You can't upset my little Fo'-Pound bar only risin's from the dead, which ain't 'ardly accordin' not under National Hunt Rules anyway," he said. "If a tiger was to lep in his backside and chaw him a nice piece, it wouldn't move him any." Many on the Grand Stand had not marked the incident. They were watching now with all their eyes for a more familiar sensation.
And little Fo'-Pound he winks to 'isself and rolls 'ome at the top of his form just anyhow. 'Alf a length the judges gave it, and a punishin' finish the papers called it. Jaggers didn't see it, and Chukkers wasn't ridin'. So there was nobody to tell no tales; an' they're puttin' him in at ten stone." "And the mare's got twelve-seven," said the young man meditatively.
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