Though not quite the centre of the Turf, the Green Dragon had nursed
a _coup_ in its day, nor was it without a sense of veneration. The
ownership of Calliope invested ‘Jimmy’ Shrewin with the importance of
those out of whom something can be had. It took time for one so long
accustomed to beck and call, to mole-like procedure, and the demeanour
of young bloods, to realise that he had it. But slowly, with the marked
increase of his unpaid-for cheroots, with the way in which glasses
hung suspended when he came in, with the edgings up to him, and a
certain tendency to accompany him along the street, it dawned on him
that he was not only an out-of-bounds bookie, but a man. So long as
he had remained unconscious of his double nature he had been content
with laying the odds, as best he might, and getting what he could out
of every situation, straight or crooked. Now that he was also a man,
his complacency was ruffled. He suffered from a growing headiness
connected with his horse. She was trained, now, by Polman, further
along the Downs, too far for Pulcher’s bobtail; and though her public
life was carried on at the Green Dragon, her private life required a
train journey over night. ‘Jimmy’ took it twice a week--touting his own
horse in the August mornings up on the Downs, without drink or talk, or
even cheroots. Early morning, larks singing, and the sound of galloping
hoofs! In a moment of expansion he confided to Pulcher that it was
‘bally ’olesome.’
There had been the slight difficulty of being mistaken for a tout by
his new trainer, Polman, a stoutish man with the look of one of those
large sandy Cornish cats, not precisely furtive because reticence and
craft are their nature. But, that once over, his personality swelled
slowly. This month of August was one of those interludes, in fact,
when nothing happens, but which shape the future by secret ripening.
An error to suppose that men conduct finance, high or low, from greed,
or love of gambling; they do it out of self-esteem, out of an itch to
prove their judgment superior to their neighbours’, out of a longing
for importance. George Pulcher did not despise the turning of a penny,
but he valued much more the consciousness that men were saying: “Old
George, what ’e says goes--knows a thing or two--George Pulcher!”
To pull the strings of ‘Jimmy’ Shrewin’s horse was a rich and subtle
opportunity absorbingly improvable. But first one had to study the
animal’s engagements, and, secondly, to gauge that unknown quantity,
her ‘form.’ To make anything of her this year they must ‘get about it.’
That young ‘toff,’ her previous owner, had, of course, flown high,
entering her for classic races, high-class handicaps, neglecting the
rich chances of lesser occasions.
Third to Referee in the three-year-old race at Sandown Spring--two
heads--was all that was known of her, and now they had given her seven
two in the Cambridgeshire. She might have a chance, and again she might
not. He sat two long evenings with ‘Jimmy’ in the little private room
off the bar, deliberating this grave question.
‘Jimmy’ inclined to the bold course. He kept saying: “The mare’s a
flyer, George--she’s the ’ell of a flyer!”
“Wait till she’s been tried,” said the oracle.
Had Polman anything that would give them a line?
Yes, he had The Shirker (named with that irony which appeals to the
English), one of the most honest four-year-olds that ever looked
through bridle, who had run up against almost every animal of mark--the
one horse that Polman never interfered with, or interrupted in his
training lest he should run all the better; who seldom won, but was
almost always placed--the sort of horse that handicappers pivot on.
“But,” said Pulcher, “try her with The Shirker, and the first stable
money will send her up to tens. That ’orse is so darned regular. We’ve
got to throw a bit of dust first, ‘Jimmy.’ I’ll go over and see Polman.”
In ‘Jimmy’s’ withered chest a faint resentment rose--it wasn’t George’s
horse; but it sank again beneath his friend’s bulk and reputation.
The ‘bit of dust’ was thrown at the ordinary hour of exercise over
the Long Mile on the last day of August--the five-year-old Hangman
carrying eight stone seven, the three-year-old Parrot seven stone five;
what Calliope was carrying nobody but Polman knew. The forethought of
George Pulcher had secured the unofficial presence of the Press. The
instructions to the boy on Calliope were to be there at the finish if
he could, but on no account to win. ‘Jimmy’ and George Pulcher had
come out over night. They sat together in the dog-cart by the clump of
bushes which marked the winning-post, with Polman on his cob on the far
side.
By a fine, warm light the three horses were visible to the naked eye in
the slight dip down by the start. And, through the glasses, invested in
now that he had a horse, ‘Jimmy’ could see every movement of his mare
with her blazed face--rather on her toes, like the bright chestnut and
‘bit o’ blood’ she was. He had a pit-patting in his heart, and his lips
were tight-pressed. Suppose she was no good after all, and that young
‘Cocoon’ had palmed him off a pup! But mixed in with his financial fear
was an anxiety more intimate, as if his own value were at stake.
From George Pulcher came an almost excited gurgle.
“See the tout! See ’im behind that bush. Thinks we don’t know ’e’s
there, wot oh!”
‘Jimmy’ bit into his cheroot. “They’re running,” he said.
Rather wide, the black Hangman on the far side, Calliope in the middle,
they came sweeping up the Long Mile. ‘Jimmy’ held his tobaccoed breath.
The mare was going freely--a length or two behind--making up her
ground! Now for it!
Ah! she ’ad The ’Angman beat, and ding-dong with this Parrot! It was
all he could do to keep from calling out. With a rush and a cludding
of hoofs they passed--the blazed nose just behind The Parrot’s bay
nose--dead heat all but, with The Hangman beaten a good length!
“There ’e goes, Jimmy! See the blank scuttlin’ down the ’ill like a
blinkin’ rabbit. That’ll be in to-morrow’s paper, that trial will. Ah!
but ’ow to read it--that’s the point.”
The horses had been wheeled and were sidling back; Polman was going
forward on his cob.
‘Jimmy’ jumped down. Whatever that fellow had to say, he meant to hear.
It was his horse! Narrowly avoiding the hoofs of his hot, fidgeting
mare, he said sharply:
“What about it?”
Polman never looked you in the face; his speech came as if not intended
to be heard by anyone:
“Tell Mr. Shrewin how she went.”
“Had a bit up my sleeve. If I’d hit her a smart one, I could ha’ landed
by a length or more.”
“That so?” said ‘Jimmy’ with a hiss. “Well, _don’t_ you hit her; she
don’t want hittin’. You remember that.”
The boy said sulkily: “All right!”
“Take her home,” said Polman. Then, with that reflective averted air of
his, he added: “She was carrying eight stone, Mr. Shrewin; you’ve got a
good one there. She’s The Hangman at level weights.”
Something wild leaped up in ‘Jimmy’--The Hangman’s form unrolled itself
before him in the air--he had a horse--he dam’ well had a horse!