The mare had won and had been disqualified. Those were the simple facts; and no casuistry by the cleverest of London lawyers could get away from them.
On the question of Chukkers and the Bully Boys, as the English cheap press called them, showed themselves eminently reasonable.
As they said themselves not without grimness, "Gee!—Don't we know Chukkers?—Didn't we riz him? His father was a Frisco Chink, and his mother a Mexican half-breed. You can tell us nothing about him we don't know. We admit it all. Wipe it out. If she'd been ridden by the straightest feller that ever sat in the pigskin the result'd have been the same. Are you going to give America best in your big race? Is John Bull a bleatin' baa-lamb?"
And so Hands off and no Hanky-Panky was the war-chaunt of the young American bloods whom great Cunarders vomited on to the docks at Liverpool and P.-and-O.'s landed at Tilbury to join the Ikey's Own, who had been on watch throughout the winter.
The National always takes place on the Friday of Aintree week.
All the week special trains were running Liverpool-ward from the ends of the British Isles. London, Glasgow, Cardiff, and Plymouth each sent their contingents speeding north on the same engrossing errand. All day and night people were turning out in their thousands, hanging over bridges, lining railway embankments, to see the great engines with the Kangaroo bound to their buffer-plates coming through, yes, and cheering them.
The Boys in the corridor trains stood at the windows with folded arms, watched the waving crowds grimly, and winked at each other.
They had a profound admiration for John Bull's capacity for roguery, and an equally profound belief in their own ability to go one better.
Last year J.B. had bested them—and they thought all the better of him for it. This year they meant to get their own back—and a bit more.