ARRIVAL OF THE CHAMPION. HIS RECEPTION. WHAT HE THINKS OF ENGLAND.
It was somewhere towards "the witching hour of noon" that the broad
and splendid artery of commerce, to wit, the Euston Road, became, for
the nonce, a scene of unwonted, and ever-increasing excitement. Old
Plu[1] had promised, as per Admiral FITZROY'S patent hocus-pocusser,
to give us a taste of his quality; and it is unnecessary, in this
connection, to observe that the venerable disciple of Swithin the
Saint was as good as his word. But Britons never never shall be
slaves. England expected every man to do his duty. Forward the Light
Brigade, and so on to where glory and an express train were waiting,
or would be waiting, before you had time to knock a tenpenny nail on
the head twice. The company on the platform comprised the _elite_ of
the sporting world. "Bluff" TOMMY POPPIN, the ever courteous host of
"The Chequers," "BILL" TOOTWON, by his friends yclept the Masher, JAKE
RUMBELO, the middle-weight World's Champion, were all there, wreathed
in silvery smiles, and all on the nod, on the nod, on the nod, as the
poet hath it, though why "hath it" no man can tell, in words that will
last while Old Sol, the shiner, drives his spanking tits along the
azure road.
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