_At the Races_
"Horse-racing is undoubtedly the sport of kings," I observed to
Mrs. Underbunk, as we sat on the club-house balcony at Morris Park,
yesterday.
"Undoubtedly," she said sweetly. "But kings, you know, are a pretty bad
lot."
Of course she did not really mean it, but she has a way of railing at
things just to be clever, yet it struck me that there might possibly
be some underlying sense in her remark. It was rather unfair of her,
however, as she had just cashed in on Morgan Styne's Sassafras at 10 to
1. When I suggested that she was a bit inconsistent, she retorted that
she had only a woman's passion for gambling.
"Last year I went to Nice for Lent, thinking it would be quiet down
there," she said. "As a result I lost six months' allowance at Monte
Carlo."
"You are safe here," said I laughing. "There are no wheels running in
New York. We do not allow gambling in this State."
She opened her blue eyes so wide that to escape their baneful influence
I ran away to the ring, ostensibly to put up a hundred for her at 7 to
1 on the Garish stable's Umbrella.
Now horse-racing may be the sport of kings, but I maintain that it is
still very respectable, and I have no sympathy with the bigots who are
constantly attacking the tracks. These tracks are owned and supported
by our very best people, and it is quite the smartest thing you can do
to run a stable. Take, for instance, our little party yesterday--the
Morgan Stynes, Evelyn Garish with Harry, the Plumstones, and Timpleton
Duff--all with horses running, besides dozens of others we know. Would
they support anything that was not eminently proper? The charge is made
that it is gambling. Harry Garish or Timpey Duff would no more have
their names connected with the ownership of a gambling-establishment
than they would die, but they support racing because it is a noble
sport; it takes people out-of-doors, out in the fresh air and
sunshine, among the green lawns and trees; and is there anything
more exciting, more exhilarating, than to see the thorough-breds
struggling for the mastery, when you stand to win or lose a few
thousands? Fortunate, indeed, is the public to have such men as Garish
and Duff working in the interest of clean sport, and putting it on a
thoroughly business-like and paying basis, men whose fathers' names
were symbols of integrity in the business world, whose own names head
the subscription lists of every charity in the city. As I told Mrs.
Underbunk, Garish is the moving spirit in the Anti-pool-room League,
and has done a great deal for the community in ridding it of those
gambling-holes, which are so demoralizing to the wage-earners. She
immediately inquired whether the thousands of men and women we saw all
about us consulting their information sheets were not wage-earners,
thinking of course that she had me cornered, but I was able to reply
like a flash that they were not--most of them got their money in other
ways.
Womanlike, she was not satisfied, but went on to inquire if Garish had
tried to root out gambling at the tracks.
An absurd question! But patiently, as simply as I could, I explained
to her that while a few persons might watch horses race just to see
which was the fastest, the great majority of the public demanded the
additional interest given by an opportunity to make ten dollars by
risking one. It cost a great deal to support the tracks and stables,
and no company of philanthropists living would dare to go into such a
venture without being sure of enough gate-receipts to pay expenses,
and twenty per cent. on the money invested. The betting-ring was,
therefore, a necessity if we were to have the glorious sport at all.
Mrs. Underbunk was only about half satisfied, but she is a very
strict little soul in her theories, and I saw that it was useless to
argue with her. That she had come at all was a surprise to me, but
Evelyn Garish asked her up to their Westchester house to spend a few
days, and help her with the bazaar they are to have at Lazydays, to
secure money for the work of St. Simon's parish. She suggested that
we all meet at the track yesterday, as her filly Umbrella was to run
in the May Handicap and would be a sure thing at long odds, so I
agreed to take Gladys up in my car. We were to have had luncheon at
the club-house with the Garishes and their party, which included the
Stynes, the Duffs, and the Plumstones, but as luck would have it a
policeman held me up for over-speeding on Seventh Avenue, and took us
to the police-station. What a nuisance those fellows are! He said we
were running at twenty-five miles an hour, though my chauffeur and I
both swore that our machine could not do better than eight, under any
circumstances. Fortunately, the police-court was still in session
nearby, and I was able to get away after giving cash bail to appear
next Wednesday. The judge was a very decent fellow and apologized for
holding me. He said it was the law, to which I retorted emphatically
that the law should be changed, as I was getting thoroughly tired
of being arrested every time I took out my car. For fear of another
interruption by the police I had to proceed very slowly, and after we
reached the track we had hardly more than enough time to swallow a bite
of luncheon before the call for the first race.
There was quite a gathering of the clans, and I must say it was
very jolly to see everybody again, fresh and rested after their
Lenten seclusion. Long Island and Westchester seemed to have emptied
themselves into the club-house. Jack Twitters was there with his two
daughters, and Julius Hogginson Fairfield in close attendance on
Constance. Charley Bullington, who was in on the recent bulge in Potash
common, brought up the Verys and Lord Less on his new coach, and made
a mess of it, after he passed the gates, as his leaders got beyond his
control, when Winthrop Jumpkin, 7th, came up behind in that infernal
car he hires. It sounds like a rolling-mill in busy times. The Earl of
Less jumped and landed in a bush, scratching himself severely, though
he would have been perfectly safe on top as a half-dozen policemen and
a couple of grooms were hanging to the fractious pair. Then there were
the Plumstones, Gastly, with some men from the Cholmondeley Club, and
a number of the professional horsey set who seem to stable themselves
somewhere for the winter, and come forth in the spring with red faces
and waistcoats.
Gladys Underbunk is a thorough-going sport in a quiet way, for when
Morgan Styne had tipped me on his Sassafras and I had told her what
a good thing it was, she got a small roll out of the recesses of her
automobile-coat, and asked me to put up twenty-five for her to win. As
Sassafras was understood to be a cripple, and the tipsters had Uncle
Bill as a sure thing, I got 10 to 1 on the Styne colt, and he won in a
romp. It was a splendid race. This was sport at its best, as I pointed
out to Gladys. The air, clear and soft; the sunshine glimmering over
the rolling greensward; the gay, happy thousands keyed to the highest
pitch of excitement, while the clean-limbed horses, the brightly clad
boys crouching tight in the saddles, struggled nose-and-nose for the
mastery, then flashed under the wire with the gallant little Sassafras
full two lengths in the lead--this was glorious. Mrs. Underbunk asked
why there was not more enthusiasm over the winner, and I, of course,
had to explain that Uncle Bill at 2 to 1 carried the money of the
crowd, and as he had broken down at the entrance to the stretch, there
was naturally some disappointment among the masses. Simple creature!
When I handed her a roll of $275 she was loath to take it, said that it
seemed wrong to make money so easily, and wanted to know whose it was.
When she heard that it came from the bookies she was concerned lest
they could not afford it, but I explained that they had got it from the
crowd who had mostly backed Uncle Bill. Then she wanted to know if I
knew of any other good things.
Julius Hogginson Fairfield came strutting up, all smiles, and told
us in an offhand way that he had put up five hundred on Sassafras,
making quite a killing. It sounded very well, only I had happened to
be right in line behind him when he placed a ten-dollar bill on the
Styne colt. But people do like to give the impression of being real
sports. I was tempted to remark that men who had to depend on their
brains for a living, like writers, had no business risking even ten
on the result of a race, but I decided to leave him happy in the
profound impression he had created as a wise one. Though we did not
ask him, he followed us down to the paddock with Evelyn Garish when
we went to look over their Umbrella, and he declared positively that
he was going to bet his imaginary five thousand straight and place on
the black filly. But when I heard that Pebble, the darky, was to be
up in place of Tomlinson, the boy who rides regularly for the Garish
stable but was under suspension, I got my friend Cantle, the trainer,
behind a tree and consulted him. Evelyn Garish said she would never
forgive herself if we did not back Umbrella, for she believed it was
like finding money, and I had to assure her that I would, but when
Mrs. Underbunk handed me $100 I whispered to her for permission to use
my own judgment. It came so straight from that trainer that 4 to 1 on
Doctor B. to win seemed too good a thing to miss. In all my life I have
never seen such a poor race. Doctor B., undoubtedly the best of the
lot, was practically left at the post, thanks to the starter, and the
Garish filly led all the way and finished in a walk. Mrs. Underbunk was
so wildly excited over the result that she forgot all about there ever
having been any other horse in the race at all, and I just had not the
courage to enlighten her. So when she told me to hurry down to those
dear bookies and get her money, I returned to a quiet spot and found
solace in a Scotch and soda. Then I counted eight hundred out of my
own pocket and went back to the balcony and paid up, and effusively
thanked Mrs. Garish for having let me know about Umbrella. It was
pretty hard to have to look pleased to death, after Doctor B. had taken
a large part of my money, in addition to my settling with Gladys. Then
to make matters worse, that infernal Fairfield had to come bowling up
and intimate that he had hit the ring for close to twenty thousand,
though I had seen him pass a small roll of tens into the hands of the
shirt-sleeved gentleman who takes in the money for J. Cohen.
Still Mrs. Underbunk's gratitude was worth paying for. She had got
thoroughly into the spirit of the sport, and wanted to know if I had
any more good things. I asked her playfully if she did not think
betting was wrong.
"It is delightfully wrong," said she seriously. "But I understand
those book-makers are a horrid lot of men, and why shouldn't I take
their money?"
So she made a sentimental bet on Harry Garish to win the steeple-chase
at two miles and a half, on Fencerail, heavily weighted. Garish did not
seem to have a ghost of a chance on his ancient jumper, and was quoted
at times as long as 20 to 1. I got her 15 to 1 for a hundred, but was
wise myself. I always was afraid of steeple-chases, particularly with
gentlemen riders up. Fencerail was never in the running till the last
two jumps, one of which Blue Fox, the favorite, refused absolutely,
while the second sent Tommy Tattler off his Rockaway into the water. It
was a positive sin the way Fencerail came home lengths in front of the
surviving bunch.
By this time I inwardly vowed that I should follow Mrs. Underbunk, and
at least quit the game even. Gastly came up and said that he liked
Primrose in the fourth, and she declared sweetly that she would back
anything Mr. Gastly liked. So I proceeded to send my money along with
hers, and Primrose came down the stretch when the bugle was calling,
the fifth to the post. Gastly was not seen about the club-house again.
With a like result in the last two with horses chosen for their pretty
names, I had not enough money left to give cash bail, so the run over
to Lazydays was made at a very sedate speed. However, I did not mind
going slowly. The Garishes in their brake, with the Stynes, Cecil
Hash, and Sally Bilberry passed us on the road, and when I explained
that the machine was out of order, they wanted Gladys Underbunk to go
on with them. Delightful woman! She refused. She was in the highest
of spirits with a couple of thousand in winnings tucked away in her
automobile-coat, and I was quite consoled for my own losses. When
I railed at her for the sudden change in her views on betting, she
replied that she thought racing was fairer than roulette, because you
could get inside information, like our tip on Umbrella.
Luck changed a bit last night. I won quite a little at bridge from
Cecil Hash and Evelyn Garish. This morning I am feeling brighter, but
I am staying in my room, as the rector at St. Simon's always bores me
to death. This afternoon I am to try a little golf, though I have not
played it in years. I feel that I need some violent exercise.
* * * * *
Mr. Mudison married Mrs. Underbunk at St. Simon's in June. The wedding
was a quiet one, but so important, because of the character of the
contracting parties, that full details of it were given at the time in
the newspaper accounts. The ceremony was the simplest possible, there
being no bridesmaids, though the bride had as pages her two small sons,
Devereux and Maltravers Underbunk. Mr. Gastly was best man, and there
was a small breakfast later at Mrs. Garish's country house. Many pages
of Mr. Mudison's manuscripts are devoted to the days preceding this
important event in his life, but when it is considered that after all
he chronicles only an everyday romance, that he is telling again the
story that has been told thousands and thousands of times before, it
is readily understood why this part of his memoirs is not deemed of
great value. Of far more interest it is to see him settled down happily
with his wife and step-children in a modest house; and it is with this
epoch that the next part of his edited papers has to do. But to some
persons there may be a tragedy in this line in the recent _Social
Register_: Mudison, Mr. & Mrs. Madison (Gladys Tinkle--Underbunk), C.,
H. '90--Lexington Avenue.