The Irish division were in screaming ecstasies.
Then the roar of New England, overwhelming all else, told that the mare was making good.
Moonlighter's jockey saw he was beaten for the moment at least and took a pull.
As Mocassin's swift bobbing head swung round the corner on to the straight, she was alone save for her stable-companion, and his work was done.
"He's seen her through," muttered Old Mat. "Now he can go home to bed."
Indeed, as Jackaroo sprawled down the straight, still hanging to the quarters of the mare, he looked like a towel-rail on which wet clothes had been hung, and Rushton had ceased to ride.
The mare, fresh as the old horse was failing, came along in front of the Grand Stand, clipping the grass with that swift, rhythmical stroke of hers and little fretful snatch at the reins, neat and swift and strong as a startled deer.
Chukkers sat still and absorbed as a cat waiting over a mouse's hole.
All eyes were on him. Nothing else was seen. His race was won. Last year's defeat had been avenged. America had made good. A roar as of an avalanche boomed and billowed about him. The thousands on the stands yelled, stamped and cooeyed.
"Hail, Columbia!" bellowed the triumphant Boys.