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"The horse is here belonging to Mak... Mak... I never can say the

name," said the Englishman, over his shoulder, pointing his big

finger and dirty nail towards Gladiator's stall.

"Mahotin? Yes, he's my most serious rival," said Vronsky.

"If you were riding him," said the Englishman, "I'd bet on you."

"Frou-Frou's more nervous; he's stronger," said Vronsky, smiling

at the compliment to his riding.

"In a steeplechase it all depends on riding and on pluck," said

the Englishman.

Of pluck-that is, energy and courage-Vronsky did not merely feel

that he had enough; what was of far more importance, he was

firmly convinced that no one in the world could have more of this

"pluck" than he had.

"Don't you think I want more thinning down?"

"Oh, no," answered the Englishman. "Please, don't speak loud. The

mare's fidgety," he added, nodding towards the horse-box, before

which they were standing, and from which came the sound of

restless stamping in the straw.