When the American crowd surged up and down the course roaring magnificently,

          The star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
          O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave,

the counter-marching Englishmen met them with the challenging,

          The land of Hope and Glory
          The Mother of the Free.

With any other peoples rioting and bloodshed would have ensued.  Here, apart from an occasional cut-and-dry battle between two enthusiastic individuals in the fringes of the crowd, there was never any need for police interference.

* * * * *

There were two flat races before the National.  The horses were gathering for the first when Albert in his shirt sleeves bustled across the Paddock.

A whistle stopped him and he turned.

“’Ullo, Mr. Brand!”

“Where are you off to?”

“I’m goin’ to dress now.”

“You’re early.”

“First race is starting.”

“How’s the horse?”

“Keeps a-lingerin’ along.”

“Who’s with him?”

“Mr. Silver.”

The fat man chimed in: 

“Where’s the lady, then?”

Albert looked blank.

“I ain’t seen her,” he said.  “Believe she’s walking round the course.”

Joses laughed.

“I should have thought you’d have been the one to walk round the course,” he said.

“I been,” replied the lad keenly.

“And what d’you think of it?” asked Monkey.

The youth rubbed his stomach with the most delicate consideration.

“Pore Albert,” he said.  “That’s what I think.  They’re a yard through some of ’em.  You clears ’em clean or—­it’s amen, so be it, good-bye to the totties, and no flowers by request.”

He bustled on his way.

Monkey nudged his mate.

“Keeps it up,” he muttered.

“Proper,” the other answered.

* * * * *

The second race was run and won.  Two o’clock came and went.  The jockeys began to emerge from the dressing-room under the Grand Stand.  Monkey Brand and Joses watched the door.

“Where’s green then?” muttered the tout, as the expected failed to show.

“’Ush!” said Monkey at his elbow.

The fat man turned.

At the far side of the Paddock, by the gate, the looked-for jockey had appeared out of nowhere.

The green of his cap betrayed him, and the fact that old Mat was in close conversation with him.

He wore a long racing-coat, and his collar was turned up.  Indeed, apart from his peaked cap drawn down over his eyes and his spurs, little but coat was to be seen of him.

“Where did he spring from?” asked Joses, and began to move toward the jockey.

His companion stayed him suddenly.

Billy Bluff, who had evaded the police, and dodged his way into the Paddock, raced up to the jockey and began to squirm about him, half triumphant, half ashamed.