Boy Woodburn | Page 3

and flocked to the fields under Polefax Beacon to see the horses and to enjoy Old Mat, who was the accepted centre-piece.
The Grand Stand was formed of Sussex wains drawn up end to end; and the Paddock was just roped off.
Outside the ropes, at the foot of the huge green wave of the Downs, were the merry-go-rounds, the cocoanut-shies and wagons of the gypsies; while under a group of elms the carts and carriages of the local farmers and gentry were drawn up.
There, too, of course, was Mat's American buggy, a spidery concern, made to the old man's design, seated like a double dog-cart, and looking amongst the solid carts and carriages that flanked it like a ghost amongst mortals. It was the most observed vehicle of them all, partly because of its unusual make and shape, and partly because that was the famous shay in which year after year Mat drove over the Downs from Putnam's behind the horse with which he meant to win the Hunters' Steeplechase.
That race, always the last item on the programme, and the most looked-for, was about to begin.
The quality in the Paddock were climbing to their places in the wagons. The voices of the bookies were raised vociferously. The crowd jostled about them, eager to back Old Mat's old horse, Goosey Gander. They believed in the old man's luck, they believed in the old man's horse, they believed in the old man's jockey, Monkey Brand, almost as famous locally as his master.
A boy slipped into the Paddock and began to bet surreptitiously behind the dressing-tent.
He was fair, slight, and horsey. His stiff, tight choker, his horse-shoe pin, the cut of his breeches, his alert and wary air of a man of the world, all betrayed the racing-lad. From the corner of his mouth hung a cigarette waggishly a-rake; and his billycock had just the correct and knowing cock. He kept well under the lee of the tent; and if he was brazen, it was clear that he was sinning and fearful of discovery: for he had one eye always on the watch for the Avenging Angel who might swoop down on him at any moment.
"What price, Goosey Gander?" he asked in a voice harsh and cracking.
"Give you threes," replied the bookie.
"Do it in dollars," replied the boy, with the magnificent sang-froid of one who goes to ruin as a man of blood should go.
"And again?" asked the bookie.
The answer was never forth-coming; for the Avenging Angel, not unexpected, swept down upon the sinner with flaming sword.
She was in the shape of a girl about the lad's own age and size, fair as was he and slight, a flapper with a short thick straw-coloured plait. She came round the tent swift and terrible as a rapier, her steel-gray eyes flashing and fierce. Such determination on so young a face the bookie thought he had never seen. For a moment he expected to see her strike her victim. And the boy apparently expected the same, for he cowered back, putting up his hands as though to ward off a blow.
"Got you, sonny," said the bookie, and bolted with a half-hearted grin.
The girl never hesitated. She leapt upon her victim, keen and direct as a tigress.
"Give me that ticket!" she ordered in a deep bass voice whose earnestness was almost awful.
The boy had recovered from his first shock.
"It were only----"
"Give me that ticket!"
Reluctantly the lad obeyed.
"Spit out that cigarette!"
Again he obeyed. The girl put her broad flat heel on the chewed remnant and churned it into the mud.
"Any others?"
"No, Miss."
"You have!--I'll search you."
"Only a packet o' woodbines, Miss."
She pocketed them remorselessly.
"Leave the paddock!"
The boy went, slow and sullen. Then he became aware of people watching beyond the ropes and recovered himself with a jerk.
"Yes, Miss. Very good, Miss," he cried cheerfully, touched his hat, and began to run as on an errand.
It was a pretty piece of bluff. Boy Woodburn, in spite of her anger, marked it down to the credit side of the lad's account. When he was collared, Albert Edward kept his head. That would help him one day when he was caught in a squeeze in a big race and had to jockey to get through.
The roar from the crowd told her the race had started. She flashed back to the ropes, a slight figure, in simple blue serge, the radiant plait of her hair flapping as she ran.
Old Mat, standing a little behind the crowd at the ropes, had watched the scene.
"One o' my lads," he said in his mysterious wheeze to the big young man at his side. "'No smokin', swearin', or bettin' in my stable!'--that's Miss Boy's rule. Gets it from Mar." The girl passed them swiftly and the old man hid his betting-book behind him. "Well, Boy, sossed him?"