The planning and working of a handicap _coup_, by which a sum of from
twenty to forty thousand pounds may be netted by a clever clique of
racing experts, may be figuratively described.
The first thing to be observed is that such a matter cannot be
organised in a week or even in a month. The long-headed turf expert
who strikes for fortune at a blow will probably have been at work
upon his scheme for perhaps twelve or eighteen months, or more likely
for double that length of time. He will have commenced proceedings
perhaps by purchasing, for what is called "an old song," some supposed
broken-down and worthless horse, which, however, as his practised eye
has discovered, might, if treated with care and properly trained, win a
race or two. For a time nothing is heard of the purchase: Conspirator
is not entered for any of the passing handicaps and becomes almost
forgotten, although, when a two-year-old, it was more than once
prophesied that it was a horse likely to be heard of as the winner
of some big event. In the course of four or five months it will be
announced in the training reports that "Sweatmore, the trainer, took
his horses to the North-East Division of the Southside Downs, where
Petty Larceny, Burglar, Area Sneak, Impostor, and Conspirator did
good work." That announcement indicates the beginning of the end, and
by-and-by Conspirator is entered for one or two petty races in which he
is supposed to make a fair struggle for victory, carrying a tolerably
liberal weight, but particular care is taken by his trainer that he
shall not attract much attention. In due time the horse makes his
appearance in a struggle of importance, in which he is weighted more
favourably than was expected; but for all that, his time has not yet
come--the astute gentleman who pulls the strings in the stable can wait
a long time should he think a victory can be won in the end. Nothing is
ever gained in horse-racing by being in a great hurry, and the horse
hitherto has been entered simply to find out the handicappers' estimate
of him.
"Seven stone five; not bad that for a five-year-old which three years
ago was thought to have the makings of a fair horse about him," says
the trainer; "but we must get him in at less than that by at least half
a stone."
Just so. Nothing, it has been said, is denied to persons who know
_how_ to wait. "Conspirator ran very badly," is the verdict of the
turf critic, "never once giving his supporters a ray of hope, although
evidently backed to win a considerable sum of money; it is not easy to
understand why such a horse is in training."
For the next two races in which he is entered Conspirator does not
accept, although in one of them he has only the nice weight of 6 st. 10
lb. to carry.
"He could win with that," says his trainer; "but with two or three
pounds less it would be real jam."
"All right," replies the man who is working the oracle; "we must send
him to run for the Great Jericho Stakes in August, and get him well
beaten; in the meantime he has been entered for the Haymarket Handicap,
the weights for which come out two days after the Jericho race has been
decided, and then we can determine what to do, eh?"
The Haymarket Handicap being a first-rate betting race, the publication
of the weights is eagerly expected by Mr. Saltem, who is acting manager
of this little play; and so, on the afternoon of the calendar day, when
old Bob Girths, a waif of the turf, comes rushing into a tavern in
St. Martin's Lane with a copy of the weights, a half-sovereign, and a
quartern of gin besides, is cheerfully bestowed on him by Mr. Saltem.
In a moment, by a glance at the sheet, that gentleman has comprehended
the situation--"Conspirator, 6 st. 5 lb., glorious!" he exclaims _sotto
voce_; "daren't have given him less myself."
A wire in key is at once sent off to Sweatmore, the trainer, and then
the acceptances, which are not due till the following Tuesday, are
impatiently waited for, and when obtained, eagerly scanned. Fifty-nine
out of the ninety-two entered remain in the handicap, Beef Eater is top
weight, and so the original imposts assigned remain unaltered.
A good deal of betting on the "H.H.," as it was called by the turfites,
had taken place, both previous to the entries and while waiting for
the acceptances, and it was known that an occasional 1,000 to 10, and
three or four times 1,000 to 16 had been picked up by some "mugs" about
Conspirator, but the so-called "mugs" were men who had been inspired
by Saltem. No great move, however, was made by that astute person till
the acceptances were declared, and he had seen with whom he had to do
battle.
Burglar, a six-year-old, with 7 st. 4 lb. to carry, who won the rich
Covent Garden Cup two years previously and is in the same interest as
Conspirator, is made favourite as soon as the active work of betting
begins, whilst Conspirator is quoted at 40 to 1 offered.
"Just the thing for us," is the opinion of Saltem, "and now for the
commission."
Sweatmore runs up from the stable to hold a conference with Saltem.
In his opinion they have only one horse to fear, and that horse is
Diddle-em, an animal not unknown to fame, a five-year-old, weighted at
7 st. "Well, it belongs on the quiet to Job Goodchild, the bookmaker,
Diddle-em does," says Saltem, "and we can easily square Job, I think,
by letting him in the swim."
So they agree to do so, and Goodchild being let into the swim, a plan
of operation is at once arranged for getting on the money.
First of all, by means of a little newspaper strategy, Burglar is
made a "great pot," as it is called, for the handicap; "that horse,"
says one of the sporting prints, "has cleaned out the stable with the
greatest ease, and if he can beat Diddle-em he has the 'H.H.' at his
mercy." Then comes the corollary, _vide_ the market reports: "Burglar
100 to 8 taken freely; Diddle-em 14 to 1 taken and offered; The Beak 16
to 1; The Artful Dodger 20 to 1 offered; Conspirator 33 to 1 offered,
forties wanted."
Such is the state of the odds, when one afternoon at the King's Club,
"I'll lay 1,000 to 20 or any part of it against Conspirator," is
shouted, but no one responds; and as all over the country the horse
is on offer at these odds, a favourable opportunity is presented for
working the commission, 50 to 1 being esteemed a nice price.
At first a very little only is done in a narrow field; by-and-by,
however, operations are extended, and on a given day the whole country
is _worked_--Manchester, Dublin, Liverpool, Edinburgh, Glasgow;
every town, in short, where a few ten-pound notes can be got on is
communicated with through the agents of Job Goodchild, and before
the majority of the bookmakers awake to the fact a heavy commission
has been executed, and the party stand to win, some thirteen days
before the race, a rough sum of over £45,000! On the Saturday previous
to the Wednesday on which the race falls to be run, a second trial
takes place, Diddle-em is borrowed, as well as another horse which
had recently won a biggish handicap; Burglar also takes part in the
trial. It is a near thing, as some would have thought had they seen it.
Conspirator seeming to have quite enough to do to beat Diddle-em; but
then, as Conspirator was carrying an additional 10 lb. of weight, it
really was, as Sweatmore said, a case of "real jam."
"There's nought else in the race, as I'm a living sinner," said the
trainer; "he'll win easy, see if he doesn't."
And so in the end it proves. "Conspirator jumped off with the lead,
made all his own running, and before he had covered a mile had all the
others beaten," so wrote one of the journalists who chronicled the
race ("won by three lengths," was the verdict of the judge); brother
to Agrippa, second; Virginia, third; Burglar broke down, and Diddle-em
walked in with the crowd. Sixteen ran.
So ended this well-planned _coup_.