"A horse for a protection is a deceitful thing," as the Scotch
translator of KING DAVID has it, and I entirely agree with him. I
rather wish to be protected from a horse, than expect any succour
from a creature so large, muscular and irrational. Far from being
"courageous," as his friends say, the horse (I am not speaking of the
war-horse) is afraid of almost everything, that is why I am afraid
of him. He is a most nervous animal, and I am a nervous rider. He is
afraid of a bicycle or a wheel-barrow, which do not alarm the most
timid bipeds, and when he is afraid he shies, and when he shies I no
longer remain. Irrational he is, or he would not let people ride him,
however, I never met a horse that would let _me_ do so. It is with the
horse as an instrument of gambling that I am concerned. In that sense
I have "backed" him, in no other sense to any satisfactory result.
With all his four legs he stumbles more than one does with only
a pair, an extraordinary proof of his want of harmony with his
environment.
I was beguiled on to the Turf by winning a small family
sweepstakes--£3 in fact. A sporting cousin told me that I had better
"put it on _Cauliflower_," who was the favourite for The City and
Suburban. He put it on _Cauliflower_ for me, and we won, so that a
career of easy opulence seemed open. Then I took to backing horses,
a brief madness. I read all the sporting papers, and came to the
conclusion that the prophets are naught. If you look at their
vaticinations, you will find that they all select their winners out
of the first four favourites. Anybody could do that. Now the first
four favourites do not by any means always win, and, when they do,
how short are the odds you get--hardly worth mentioning! Horses
occasionally win with odds of forty to one against them, _these_ are
the animals of which I was in search, not the hackneyed favourites
of the Press and the Public. This, I think you will find, is usually
the attitude of the Duffer, who, in my time, was known, I cannot say
why, as the "Juggins." I liked to bring a little romance into my
speculations. Often I have backed a horse for his name, for something
curious, or literary, or classical about his name. _Xanthus_, or
_Podargus_, or _Phäeton_, or _Lampusa_ has often carried my investment
to an inconspicuous position in the ruck. Another plan of mine, which
I believe every Duffer adopts, was backing my dreams--those horses of
air. About the time of the Derby one always reads about lucky persons
who backed a dream. But one does not read about the unlucky persons
who take the same precaution. Several millions of people in this
country read, talk, and think about nothing but racehorses. When the
Socialists have their way, may I advise them to keep up Government or
communal racing studs and stables? What the betting is to be done in,
if there is no money (which is contemplated as I understand), is not
obvious. But the people will insist on having races, and what is a
race without a bet? However, these considerations wander from the
subject in hand. With a fourth of the population thinking about
horses, a large proportion must dream about horses. Out of these
dreams, perhaps one in one hundred and fifty thousand comes true, and
about that dream we read in the papers. We don't read about the other
dreams, such as mine were, for I have dreamed of winning numbers,
winning colours, winning horses, but my dreams came all through the
Ivory Gate, and my money followed them.
[Illustration: "Yet here I was finally unsuccessful."]
I don't pretend to be a judge of a horse; except for their colour they
all seem pretty much alike to me. Nor did I haunt race-courses much,
people there are often very unrefined, and the Ring is extremely
noisy and confusing. Once I heard a man offering to lay considerable
odds against the Field, and I offered in a shy and hesitating manner,
to accept them. He asked me what horse I backed? I said none in
particular, the Field at large, all of them, for really the odds
seemed very remarkable. But he did not accede to my wishes, and
continued to shout in rather a discourteous manner. Once, too, when I
had won some money, I lost it all on the way back, at a simple sort of
game of cards, not nearly so complex and difficult as whist. One need
only to say which of three cards, in the dealer's hand, was the card
one had chosen. Yet here I was finally unsuccessful, though fortunate
at first, and I am led to suppose that some kind of sleight of hand
had been employed; or, perhaps, that the card of my choice had in some
manner been smuggled away. However, once on a racecourse I saw a horse
which I fancied on his merits. He looked very tall and strong, and was
of a pretty colour, also he had a nice tail. He was hardly mentioned
in the betting, and I got "on" at seventy to one, very reasonable
odds. I backed him then, and he won, with great apparent ease, for his
jockey actually seemed to be holding him in, rather than spurring him
in the regrettable way which you sometimes see. But when I went to
look for the person with whom I had made my bet, I was unable to find
him anywhere, and I have never met him since. He had about him ten
pounds, the amount of my bet, which he had insisted on receiving as
a deposit, "not necessarily for publication," he said, "but as a
guarantee of good faith." Race-courses are crowded, confusing places,
and I doubt not, that so scrupulous a man was also looking for me.
But we have never met. If this meets his eye, probably he will send a
cheque for £700 to the office of _Mr. Punch_. I have often regretted
the circumstance, as it was my most fortunate _coup_ on the Turf, and
above all, reflected credit on my judgment of a horse.
Conversing afterwards with a friend on this event, I expressed
surprise that _my_ horse had not been a favourite, considering his
agreeable exterior.
"Why, you Juggins," he answered, "_Rumtifoo_ was a moral--everybody
knew _that_; but everybody knew he wasn't meant; he was being kept
for the Polehampton Stakes. He only won because he got the better of
little BOTHERBY, his jockey, who couldn't hold him. Why, the crowd
nearly murdered him, and his master sacked him on the spot--the little
idiot!"
I do not quite understand this explanation. Poor _Rumtifoo was_
"moral," like the "moral mare" mentioned by ARISTOTLE in the _Ethics_.
He did his best to win, and he did win; what else can you ask for in a
horse?
There is, apparently, more in horse-racing than meets the eye. I am
not addicted to remembering much about the "previous performances" of
horses, as some men are, who will tell you that _Cynic_ was third in
the Kelso Hunt Cup for last year, and that you ought to keep an eye
on him for the Ayrshire Handicap. But I have remarked that horses are
not like men; they do not always run almost equally well, though the
conditions of the race seem similar. No doubt this is owing to the
nervousness of the animal, who may be discouraged by the noise, the
smell of bad tobacco, and so forth.
I have given up Racing. That was after last year's Ascot meeting. I
was staying at a country house, some days before, and somehow I lost
my betting-book. It is really extraordinary how things do get lost.
Perhaps I left it in a railway carriage. Afterwards I tried to put
my bets, as far as I could remember them, down on a large sheet of
paper, and I think I got it very nearly right. But I left the paper
lying about in the library in a very interesting first edition of
_Plotinus_, I believe, and either the housemaid burned it, or my host
threw it into the waste-paper basket. At all events, it was lost,
and I have no head for figures, and things got mixed somehow. The
book-maker's recollection of the circumstances was not the same as
mine. But I began quite a fresh book, on imaginative principles, on
the course. I had not a good Ascot. And as Racing gives me a headache,
and I seldom meet any people on the Turf who are at all interested in
the same things as myself, I have given it up for good. They say I am
a good deal regretted by the Ring. It is always pleasant to remember
having made a favourable impression.
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