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In it the girl let the handle of the pointer fall with the noise of a grounded rifle. "Mrs. Who?" she asked, fatally quiet. "Chukkers, ma'am," answered the courteous Jerry. "Go on then," sneered the girl. "Chukkers ain't married. Nobody won't 'ave him." Jerry had risen. "No, ma'am. That he ain't," said the polished little gentleman. "You're his mother from Sacramento.
"He'll want watching, Mr. Joses will," he said. "He didn't look very pretty, did he?" said the young man. "Yes," mused the old man. "A little job o' work for Monkey, that'll be. He don't like Chukkers, Monkey don't." He pursed his lips and lifting an eye-lid looked at the other from beneath it. His blue eye was dreamy, dewy, and twinkling remotely through a mist. "Rogues and rasqueals, Mr.
It was with this end in view that Chukkers, then a kid-jockey from the West, had crossed the ocean in Ikey's train, and first carried to victory the star-spangled jacket which for the past twenty years had caused such heart-burnings among the English owners, trainers, and jockeys, and such mingled enthusiasm and indignation in the uncertain-tempered English crowd.
"He's Berserk," said Chukkers doggedly. "A blind man at midnight could tell that from his fencing. Goes at 'em like a lion. Such a lift to him, too! Is Monkey Brand goin' to ride him?" he asked Joses. "No. Turned down. Too old." "Then the lad as rode him at Lingfield will," said Chukkers. "Sooner him than Monkey anyway. If Monkey couldn't win himself he'd see I didn't. Ride me down and ram me.
No blanky hanky-panky this time that's their motter." The young man went alone. At Arunvale the station-master beckoned him into the office. "It's right, sir," he said keenly. "Chukkers and Ikey come down this morning. Two-thirty's the time accordin' to my information. I've got a trap waitin' for you outside. Ginger Harris'll drive you. He was a lad at Putnam's one time o' day.
Joses, slobbering at the mouth, was shouting in the trainer's ear. Both men plunged into the vortex. "Easy all!" came Jaggers's priest-like voice. "Give him a chance, boys. We aren't beat yet." "Win, tie, or wrangle!" muttered Old Mat. "That's the Three J's all right." The mounted police were shepherding Chukkers off the course into the Paddock. There was murder in his face.
"She'll stand up. Trust Chukkers." "He's got nothing to beat." "Only Moonlighter." "Which is the Irish horse?" "The gray there. Cerise and white." "Flashy thing." "Yes. He'll give no trouble though. Three mile and a half is his limit." "Here's Gee-Woa, the Yorkshireman." "Looks an old-fashioned sort." "He can jump a haystack and stay all day; but he can't get a move on."
And Albert he told Miss Boy 'I never done nothin' to him, only beat him. And he told the truth that time if he never told it afore. 'Never you mind, says Miss Boy. 'You won and you'll win again if your head don't get so swelled you can't get the weight. We all know Chukkers, says she, 'and Jaggers, too."
Four stiff chukkers at polo are downright hard work, Miss Vernon. By teatime I shall be a limp rag. I promised to play nearly a month ago, and I cannot draw back now." "Polo is a man's game, at any rate," she admitted. "Would you care to see to-day's tie?" he asked eagerly.
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.
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