I first met Jack Burridge nearly ten years ago on a certain North-country
race-course.
The saddling bell had just rung for the chief event of the day. I was
sauntering along with my hands in my pockets, more interested in the
crowd than in the race, when a sporting friend, crossing on his way to
the paddock, seized me by the arm and whispered hoarsely in my ear:--
"Put your shirt on Mrs. Waller."
"Put my--?" I began.
"Put your shirt on Mrs. Waller," he repeated still more impressively, and
disappeared in the throng.
I stared after him in blank amazement. Why should I put my shirt on Mrs.
Waller? Even if it would fit a lady. And how about myself?
I was passing the grand stand, and, glancing up, I saw "Mrs. Waller,
twelve to one," chalked on a bookmaker's board. Then it dawned upon me
that "Mrs. Waller" was a horse, and, thinking further upon the matter, I
evolved the idea that my friend's advice, expressed in more becoming
language, was "Back 'Mrs. Waller' for as much as you can possibly
afford."
"Thank you," I said to myself, "I have backed cast-iron certainties
before. Next time I bet upon a horse I shall make the selection by
shutting my eyes and putting a pin through the card."
But the seed had taken root. My friend's words surged in my brain. The
birds passing overhead twittered, "Put your shirt on 'Mrs. Waller.'"
I reasoned with myself. I reminded myself of my few former ventures. But
the craving to put, if not my shirt, at all events half a sovereign on
"Mrs. Waller" only grew the stronger the more strongly I battled against
it. I felt that if "Mrs. Waller" won and I had nothing on her, I should
reproach myself to my dying day.
I was on the other side of the course. There was no time to get back to
the enclosure. The horses were already forming for the start. A few
yards off, under a white umbrella, an outside bookmaker was shouting his
final prices in stentorian tones. He was a big, genial-looking man, with
an honest red face.
"What price 'Mrs. Waller'?" I asked him.
"Fourteen to one," he answered, "and good luck to you."
I handed him half a sovereign, and he wrote me out a ticket. I crammed
it into my waistcoat pocket, and hurried off to see the race. To my
intense astonishment "Mrs. Waller" won. The novel sensation of having
backed the winner so excited me that I forgot all about my money, and it
was not until a good hour afterwards that I recollected my bet.
Then I started off to search for the man under the white umbrella. I
went to where I thought I had left him, but no white umbrella could I
find.
Consoling myself with the reflection that my loss served me right for
having been fool enough to trust an outside "bookie," I turned on my heel
and began to make my way back to my seat. Suddenly a voice hailed me:--
"Here you are, sir. It's Jack Burridge you want. Over here, sir."