"So," said Albert Edward, "I clapped him on the back and said, 'You
were at Geelong College in 1910, and your name's Cazenove, isn't it?'"
"To which he made reply, 'My name's Jones and I never heard of
Geewhizz,' and knocked you down and trod on you for your dashed
familiarity," said the Babe.
"Nothing of the sort. He was delighted to meet me again--de-lighted.
He's coming to munch with us tomorrow evening, by the way, so you
might sport the tablecloth for once, William old dear, and tell the
cook to put it across Og, the fatted capon, and generally strive to
live down your reputation as the worst Mess President the world has
ever seen. You will, I know--for my sake."
Next morning, when I came down to breakfast, I found a note from him
saying that he had gone to the Divisional Races with his dear old
college chum, Cazenove; also the following addenda:--
"P.S.--If William should miss a few francs from the Mess Fund tell him
I will return it fourfold ere night. I am on to a sure thing.
"P.P.S.--If MacTavish should raise a howl about his fawn leggings,
tell him I have borrowed them for the day as I understand there will
be V.A.D.'s present, and _noblesse oblige_."
At a quarter past eight that night he returned, accompanied by a
pleasant-looking gunner subaltern, whom we gathered to be the Cazenove
person. I say "gathered," for Albert Edward did not trouble to
introduce the friend of his youth, but, flinging himself into a chair,
attacked his food in a sulky silence which endured all through the
repast. Mr. Cazenove, on the other hand, was in excellent form. He had
spent a beautiful day, he said, and didn't care who knew it. A judge
of horseflesh from the cradle, he had spotted the winner every time,
backed his fancy like a little man and had been very generously
rewarded by the Totalizator. He was contemplating a trip to Brussels
in a day or so. Was his dear old friend Albert Edward coming?
His "dear old friend" (who was eating his thumb-nails instead of his
savoury) scowled and said he thought not.
The gunner wagged his head sagely. "Ah, well, old chap, if you
will bet on horses which roar like a den of lions you must take the
consequences."
Albert Edward writhed. "That animal used to win sprints in England; do
you know that?"
Mr. Cazenove shrugged his shoulders.
"He may have thirty years ago. All I'd back him to win now would be an
old-age pension. Well, I warned you, didn't I?"
Albert Edward lost control. "When I'm reduced to taking advice on
racing form from a Tasmanian I'll chuck the game and hie me to a
monkery. Why, look at that bit of bric-à-brac you were riding to-day;
a decent God-fearing Australian wouldn't be seen dead in a ten-acre
paddock with it."
Mr. Cazenove spluttered even more furiously. "That's a dashed good
horse I'll have you know."
"I am not alluding to his morals, but to his appearance," said Albert
Edward; "I've seen better-looking hat-racks."
"I'd back him to lick the stuffing out of anything you've got in this
unit, anyway," Cazenove snorted.
"Don't be rash, Charlie," Albert Edward warned; "your lucky afternoon
has gone to your head. Why, I've got an old mule here could give that
boneshaker two stone and beat him by a furlong in five."
The gunner sprang to his feet. "Done with you!" he roared. "Done with
you here and now!"
Albert Edward appeared to be somewhat taken back. "Don't be silly,
man," he soothed. "It's pitch dark outside and cut up with trenches.
Sit down and have some more of this rare old port, specially concocted
for us by the E.F.C."
But Mr. Cazenove was thoroughly aroused. "You're hedging," he sneered;
"you're scared."
"Nonsense," said Albert Edward. "I have never known what fear is--not
since the Armistice, anyhow. I am one of the bravest men I have ever
met. What are you doing with all that money?"
"Putting it down for you to cover," said Cazenove firmly.
Albert Edward sighed. "All right, then, if you will have it so.
William, old bean, I'm afraid I shall have to trouble you for a trifle
more out of the Mess Fund. _Noblesse oblige_, you know."
MacTavish and the Babe departed with the quest to prepare his mount
for the ordeal, while Albert Edward and I sought out Ferdinand and
Isabella, our water-cart pair. Isabella was fast asleep, curled
up like a cat and purring pleasantly, but Ferdinand was awake,
meditatively gnawing through the wood-work of his stall. With the
assistance of the line-guard we saddled and bridled him; but at the
stable door he dug his toes in. It was long past his racing hours, he
gave us to understand, and his union wouldn't permit it. He backed
all round the standings, treading on recumbent horses, tripping
over bails, knocking uprights flat and bringing acres of tin roofing
clattering down upon our heads, Isabella encouraging him with ringing
fanfares of applause.
At length we roused out the grooms and practically carried him to the
starting-point.
"You've been the devil of a time," William grumbled. "Cazenove's been
waiting for twenty minutes. See that light over there? That's where
MacTavish is. He's the winning-post. Keep straight down the mud-track
towards it and you'll be all right. Don't swing sideways or you'll get
bunkered. Form line. Come up the mule. Back, Cazenove, back! Steady.
Go!"
The rivals clapped heels to their steeds and were swallowed up in
the night. I looked at my watch, the hands pointed to 10.30 exactly.
William and I lit cigarettes and waited. At 10.42 MacTavish walked
into us, his lamp had given out and he wanted a new battery.
"Who won?" we inquired.
"Won?" he asked. "They haven't started yet, have they?"
"Left here about ten minutes ago," said William. "Do you mean to say
you've seen nothing of them?"
At that moment two loud voices, accompanied by the splash of liquid
and the crash of tin, struck our ears from different points of the
compass.
"Sounds to me as if somebody had found a watery grave over to the
left," said the Babe.
"Sounds to me as if somebody had returned to stables over to the
right," said I.
We trotted away to investigate. 'Twas as I thought; Ferdinand had
homed to his Isabella and was backing round the standings once more,
trailing the infuriated Albert Edward after him, sheets of corrugated
iron falling about them like leaves in Vallombrosa.
"Bolted straight in here and scraped me off against the roof," panted
the latter. "Suppose the confounded apple-fancier won ages ago, didn't
he?"
"He's upside down in the Tuning Fork trench system at the present
moment," said I. "The Babe and the grooms are digging him out. If you
hurry up you'll win yet."
We roused out the guard, bore the reluctant Ferdinand back to the
course and by eleven o'clock had restarted him. At 11.10 William
returned to report that the digging party had salved the Cazenove pair
and got them going again.
"Too late," said I; "Albert Edward must have won in a walk by now. He
left here at..."
The resounding clatter of falling sheet-iron cut short my words.
Ferdinand had, it appeared, returned to stables once more.
Suddenly something hurtled out of the gloom and crashed into us. It
was the Babe.
"What's the matter now? Where are you going?" we asked.
"Wire-cutters, quick!" he gasped and hurtled onwards towards the
saddle-room.
"Hello there!" came the hail of MacTavish from up the course. "I
s-say, what about this blessed race? I'm f-f-rozen s-s-tiff out here.
I'm about f-f-fed up, I t-tell you."
William groaned. "As if we all weren't!" he protested. "If all the
Mess Funds for the next three weeks weren't involved I'd make the
silly fools chuck it. Here, you, run and tell Albert Edward to get a
move on."
I found Ferdinand rapidly levelling the remainder of the standings,
playing his jockey at the end of his reins as a fisherman plays a
salmon.
"This cursed donkey won't steer at all," Albert Edward growled.
"Sideslips all over the place like a wet tyre. Has Cazenove won yet?"
"Not yet," said I. "He's wound up in the Switch Line wire
entanglements now. The Babe and the wrecking gang are busy chopping
him out. There's still time."
"Then drag Isabella out in front of this brute," said he. "Quick, man,
quick!"
At 11.43, by means of a brimming nose-bag, I had enticed Isabella
forth, and the procession started in the following order: First,
myself, dragging Isabella and dangling the bait. Secondly, Isabella.
Thirdly, the racers, Ferdinand and Albert Edward, the latter
belting Isabella with a surcingle whenever she faltered. Lastly, the
line-guard, speeding Ferdinand with a doubled stirrup-leather. We
toiled down the mud. track at an average velocity of .25 m.p.h.,
halting occasionally for Isabella to feed and the line-guard to rest
his arm. I have seen faster things in my day.
Then, just as we were arriving at our journey's end we collided
with another procession. It was the wrecking gang, laden with the
implements of their trade (shovels, picks, wire-cutters, ropes,
planks, waggon-jacks, etc.), and escorting in their midst Mr. Cazenove
and his battered racehorse. Both competitors immediately claimed the
victory:--
"Beaten you this time, Albert Edward, old man."... "On the contrary,
Charles, old chap, I won hands down."... "But, my good fellow, I've
been here for hours."... "My dear old thing, I've been here _all
night_!"... "Do be reasonable."... "Don't be absurd."
"Oh, dry up, you two, and leave it to the winning-post to decide,"
said William.
"By the way, where is the winning-post?"
"The winning-post," we echoed. "Yes, where is he?"
"Begging your pardon, Sir," came the voice of the Mess orderly,
"but if you was referring to Mister MacTavish he went home to bed
half-an-hour ago."