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Updated: May 2, 2025
Four-Pound-the-Second was coming along like a cataract, easy as an eagle in flight; his great buffeting shoulders were sprayed with foam, his gaping nostrils drinking in oceans of air and spouting them out again with the rhythmical regularity of a steam-pump; and his little jockey sat on his back still as a mouse a pale face, a gleam of fair hair, and two little brown fists that gave and took with each stride of the galloping horse.
But all he said in matter-of-fact voice was: "You've got a lot in front of you." "It's like a glacier," replied Boy. "She could slide on that shoulder," commented Old Mat. "Like Napoleon on the Pyramids." The young horse began to sidle and plunge. "Right!" said Boy. "Stand clear!" The little jockey jumped aside, and mounted Silvertail. Four-Pound-the-Second gave a great bound.
He laughed his deep, tremendous laughter, turning on her the face she so rejoiced in. "I've told you my one ambition." "What's that?" "To breed a National winner." That brought them back to their favourite subject Four-Pound-the-Second and his future. The foal kept the girl busy, for the old mare died, and Boy had to bring up the little creature by hand.
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