But how delicate is the process of backing your fancy! The planting of
a commission--what tender and efficient work before it will flower!
That sixth sense of the racing man, which, like the senses of savages
in great forests, seizes telepathically on what is not there, must be
dulled, duped, deluded.
George Pulcher had the thing in hand. One might have thought the gross
man incapable of such a fairy touch, such power of sowing with one
hand and reaping with the other. He intimated rather than asserted that
Calliope and The Parrot were one and the same thing. “The Parrot,”
he said, “couldn’t win with seven stone--no use thinkin’ of this
Callĭōpe.”
Local opinion was the rock on which, like a great tactician, he built.
So long as local opinion was adverse, he could dribble money on in
London; the natural jump-up from every long shot taken was dragged back
by the careful radiation of disparagement from the seat of knowledge.
‘Jimmy’ was the fly in his ointment of those balmy early weeks while
snapping up every penny of long odds, before suspicion could begin to
work from the persistence of enquiry. Half-a-dozen times he found the
‘little cuss within an ace of blowing the gaff on his own blinkin’
mare’; seemed unable to run his horse down; the little beggar’s head
was swellin’! Once ‘Jimmy’ had even got up and gone out, leaving a gin
and bitters untasted on the bar. Pulcher improved on his absence in the
presence of a London tout.
“Saw the trial meself! Jimmy don’t like to think he’s got a stiff ’un.”
And next morning his London agent snapped up some thirty-threes again.
According to the trial the mare was The Hangman at seven stone two, and
really hot stuff--a seven to one chance. It was none the less with a
sense of outrage that, opening the _Sporting Life_ on the last day of
September, he found her quoted at 100--8. Whose work was this?
He reviewed the altered situation in disgust. He had invested about
half the stable commission of three hundred pounds at an average of
thirty to one, but, now that she had ‘come’ in the betting, he would
hardly average tens with the rest. What fool had put his oar in?
He learned the explanation two days later. The rash, the unknown
backer, was ‘Jimmy’! He had acted, it appeared, from jealousy; a
bookmaker--it took one’s breath away!
“Backed her on your own just because that young ‘Cocoon’ told you he
fancied her!”
‘Jimmy’ looked up from the table in his ‘office,’ where he was sitting
in wait for the scanty custom of the Long Vacation.
“She’s not _his_ horse,” he said sullenly. “I wasn’t going to have
_him_ get the cream.”
“What did you put on?” growled Pulcher.
“Took five hundred to thirty and fifteen twenties.”
“An’ see what it’s done--knocked the bottom out of the commission. Am I
to take that fifty as part of it?”
‘Jimmy’ nodded.
“That leaves an ’undred to invest,” said Pulcher, somewhat mollified.
He stood, with his mind twisting in his thick, still body. “It’s no
good waitin’ now,” he said; “I’ll work the rest of the money on to-day.
If I can average tens on the balance, we’ll ’ave six thousand three
hundred to play with and the stakes. They tell me Jenning fancies this
Diamond Stud of his. _He_ ought to know the form with Callĭōpe,
blast him! We got to watch that.”
They had! Diamond Stud, a four-year-old with eight stone two, was being
backed as if the Cambridgeshire were over. From fifteens he advanced
to sevens, thence to favouritism at fives. Pulcher bit on it. Jenning
_must_ know where he stood with Calliope! It meant--it meant she
couldn’t win! The tactician wasted no time in vain regret. Establish
Calliope in the betting and lay off! The time had come to utilise The
Shirker.
It was misty on the Downs--fine weather mist of a bright October. The
three horses became spectral on their way to the starting-point. Polman
had thrown The Parrot in again, but this time he made no secret of the
weights. The Shirker was carrying eight seven, Calliope eight, The
Parrot seven stone.
Once more, in the cart, with his glasses sweeping the bright mist,
‘Jimmy’ had that pit-patting in his heart. Here they came! His mare
leading--all riding hard--a genuine finish! They passed--The Shirker
beaten a clear length, with the Parrot at his girth. Beside him in the
cart, George Pulcher mumbled:
“She’s The Shirker at eight stone four, Jimmy!”
A silent drive back to the river inn, big with thought; a silent
breakfast. Over a tankard at the close the oracle spoke.
“The Shirker, at eight stone four, is a good ’ot chance, but no cert,
Jimmy. We’ll let ’em know this trial quite open, weights and all.
That’ll bring her in the betting. And we’ll watch Diamond Stud. If he
drops back we’ll know Jenning thinks he can’t beat us now. If Diamond
Stud stands up we’ll know Jenning thinks he’s still got our mare safe.
Then our line’ll be clear: we lay off the lot, pick up a thousand or
so, and ’ave the mare in at a nice weight at Liverpool.”
‘Jimmy’s’ smudged-in eyes stared hungrily.
“How’s that?” he said. “Suppose she wins?”
“Wins! If we lay off the lot, she _won’t_ win.”
“Pull her!”
George Pulcher’s voice sank half an octave with disgust.
“Pull her! Who talked of pullin’? She’ll run a bye, that’s all. We
shan’t ever know whether she could ’a won or not.”
‘Jimmy’ sat silent; the situation was such as his life during sixteen
years had waited for. They stood to win both ways with a bit of
handling.
“Who’s to ride?” he said.
“Polman’s got a call on Docker. He can just ride the weight. Either way
he’s good for us--strong finisher and a rare judge of distance; knows
how to time things to a T. Win or not, he’s our man.”
‘Jimmy’ was deep in figures. Laying-off at sevens, they would still win
four thousand and the stakes.
“I’d like a win,” he said.
“Ah!” said Pulcher. “But there’ll be twenty in the field, my son; no
more uncertain race than that bally Cambridgeshire. We could pick up
a thou. as easy as I pick up this pot. Bird in the ’and, Jimmy, and a
good ’andicap in the bush. If she wins, she’s finished. Well, we’ll put
this trial about and see ’ow Jenning pops.”
Jenning popped amazingly. Diamond Stud receded a point, then
re-established himself at nine to two. Jenning was clearly not dismayed.
George Pulcher shook his head and waited, uncertain still which way to
jump. Ironical circumstance decided him.
Term had begun; ‘Jimmy’ was busy at his seat of custom. By some miracle
of guardianly intervention, young Colquhoun had not gone broke. He
was ‘up’ again, eager to retrieve his reputation, and that little
brute ‘Jimmy’ would not lay against his horse! He merely sucked-in his
cheeks, and answered: “I’m not layin’ my own ’orse.” It was felt that
he was not the man he had been; assertion had come into his manner, he
was better dressed. Someone had seen him at the station looking quite
a ‘toff’ in a blue box-cloth coat standing well out from his wisp of a
figure, and with a pair of brown race-glasses slung over the shoulder.
Altogether the ‘little brute was getting too big for his boots.’
And this strange improvement hardened the feeling that his horse was a
real good thing. Patriotism began to burn in Oxford. Here was a ‘snip’
that belonged to them, as it were, and the money in support of it,
finding no outlet, began to ball.
A week before the race--with Calliope at nine to one, and very little
doing--young Colquhoun went up to town, taking with him the accumulated
support of betting Oxford. That evening she stood at sixes. Next day
the public followed on.
George Pulcher took advantage. In this crisis of the proceedings he
acted on his own initiative. The mare went back to eights, but the deed
was done. He had laid off the whole bally lot, including the stake
money. He put it to ‘Jimmy’ that evening in a nutshell.
“We pick up a thousand, and the Liverpool as good as in our pocket.
I’ve done worse.”
‘Jimmy’ grunted out: “She could ’a won.”
“Not she. Jenning knows--and there’s others in the race. This Wasp is
goin’ to take a lot of catchin’, and Deerstalker’s not out of it. He’s
a hell of a horse, even with that weight.”
Again ‘Jimmy’ grunted, slowly sucking down his gin and bitters.
Sullenly he said:
“Well, I don’ want to put money in the pocket of young ‘Cocoon’ and his
crowd. Like his impudence, backin’ my horse as if it was his own.”
“We’ll ’ave to go and see her run, Jimmy.”
“Not me,” said ‘Jimmy.’
“What! First time she runs! It won’t look natural.”
“No,” repeated ‘Jimmy.’ “I don’t want to see ’er beat.”
George Pulcher laid his hand on a skinny shoulder.
“Nonsense, Jimmy. You’ve got to, for the sake of your reputation.
You’ll enjoy seein’ your mare saddled. We’ll go up over night. I shall
’ave a few pound on Deerstalker. I believe he can beat this Diamond
Stud. And you leave Docker to me; I’ll ’ave a word with him at Gatwick
to-morrow. I’ve known ’im since he was that ’igh; an’ ’e ain’t much
more now.”
“All right!” growled ‘Jimmy.’
V
The longer you can bet on a race the greater its fascination.
Handicappers can properly enjoy the beauty of their work; clubmen and
oracles of the course have due scope for reminiscence and prophecy;
bookmakers in lovely leisure can indulge a little their own calculated
preferences, instead of being hurried to soulless conclusions by a
half-hour’s market on the course; the professional backer has the
longer in which to dream of his fortune made at last by some hell of a
horse--spotted somewhere as interfered with, left at the post, running
green, too fat, not fancied, backward--now bound to win this hell of a
race. And the general public has the chance to read the horses’ names
in the betting news for days and days; and what a comfort that is!
‘Jimmy’ Shrewin was not one of those philosophers who justify the
great and growing game of betting on the ground that it improves the
breed of an animal less and less in use. He justified it much more
simply--he lived by it. And in the whole of his career of nearly twenty
years since he made hole-and-corner books among the boys of London,
he had never stood so utterly on velvet as that morning when his
horse must win him five hundred pounds by merely losing. He had spent
the night in London anticipating a fraction of his gains with George
Pulcher at a music-hall. And, in a first-class carriage, as became an
owner, he travelled down to Newmarket by an early special. An early
special key turned in the lock of the carriage door, preserved their
numbers at six, all professionals, with blank, rather rolling eyes,
mouths shut or slightly fishy, ears to the ground; and the only natural
talker a red-faced man, who had ‘been at it thirty years.’ Intoning the
pasts and futures of this hell of a horse or that, even he was silent
on the race in hand; and the journey was half over before the beauty of
their own judgments loosened tongues thereon. George Pulcher started it.
“I fancy Deerstalker,” he said; “he’s a hell of a horse.”
“Too much weight,” said the red-faced man. “What about this Calliope?”
“Ah!” said Pulcher. “D’you fancy your mare, Jimmy?”
With all eyes turned on him, lost in his blue box-cloth coat, brown
bowler, and cheroot smoke, ‘Jimmy’ experienced a subtle thrill.
Addressing the space between the red-faced man and Pulcher, he said:
“If she runs up to ’er looks.”
“Ah!” said Pulcher, “she’s dark--nice mare, but a bit light and shelly.”
“Lopez out o’ Calendar,” muttered the red-faced man. “Lopez didn’t
stay, but he was the hell of a horse over seven furlongs. The Shirker
ought to ’ave told you a bit.”
‘Jimmy’ did not answer. It gave him pleasure to see the red-faced man’s
eye trying to get past, and failing.
“Nice race to pick up. Don’t fancy the favourite meself; he’d nothin’
to beat at Ascot.”
“Jenning knows what he’s about,” said Pulcher.
Jenning! Before ‘Jimmy’s’ mind passed again that first sight of his
horse, and the trainer’s smile, as if he--‘Jimmy’ Shrewin, who owned
her--had been dirt. Tyke! To have the mare beaten by one of his! A
deep, subtle vexation had oppressed him at times all these last days
since George Pulcher had decided in favour of the mare’s running a
bye. D----n George Pulcher! He took too much on himself! Thought he
had ‘Jimmy’ Shrewin in his pocket! He looked at the block of crimson
opposite. Aunt Sally! If George Pulcher could tell what was passing in
his mind!
But driving up to the course he was not above sharing a sandwich and
a flask. In fact, his feelings were unstable and gusty--sometimes
resentment, sometimes the old respect for his friend’s independent
bulk. The dignity of ownership takes long to establish itself in those
who have been kicked about.
“All right with Docker,” murmured Pulcher, sucking at the wicker flask.
“I gave him the office at Gatwick.”
“She could ’a won,” muttered ‘Jimmy.’
“Not she, my boy; there’s two at least can beat ’er.”
Like all oracles, George Pulcher could believe what he wanted to.
Arriving, they entered the grand-stand enclosure, and over the dividing
railings ‘Jimmy’ gazed at the Cheap Ring, already filling-up with its
usual customers. Faces, and umbrellas--the same old crowd. How often
had he been in that Cheap Ring, with hardly room to move, seeing
nothing, hearing nothing but “Two to one on the field!” “Two to one on
the field!” “Threes Swordfish!” “Fives Alabaster!” “Two to one on the
field!” Nothing but a sea of men like himself, and a sky overhead. He
was not exactly conscious of criticism, only of a dull ‘Glad I’m shut
of that lot’ feeling.
Leaving George Pulcher deep in conversation with a crony, he lighted a
cheroot, and slipped out on to the course. He passed the Jockey Club
enclosure. Some early ‘toffs’ were there in twos and threes, exchanging
wisdom. He looked at them without envy or malice. He was an owner
himself now, almost one of them in a manner of thinking. With a sort of
relish he thought of how his past life had circled round those ‘toffs,’
slippery, shadowlike, kicked about; and now he could get up on the
Downs away from ‘toffs,’ George Pulcher, all that crowd, and smell the
grass, and hear the bally larks, and watch his own mare gallop!
They were putting the numbers up for the first race. Queer not to be
betting, not to be touting round; queer to be giving it a rest! Utterly
familiar with those names on the board, he was utterly unfamiliar with
the shapes they stood for.
‘I’ll go and see ’em come out of the paddock,’ he thought, and moved
on, skimpy in his bell-shaped coat and billycock with flattened brim.
The clamour of the Rings rose behind him while he was entering the
paddock.
Very green, very peaceful, there; not many people, yet! Three horses in
the second race were being led slowly in a sort of winding ring; and
men were clustering round the further gate where the horses would come
out. ‘Jimmy’ joined them, sucking at his cheroot. They were a picture!
Damn it! he didn’t know but that ’orses laid over men! Pretty creatures!
One by one they passed out of the gate, a round dozen. Selling platers,
but pictures for all that!
He turned back towards the horses being led about; and the old instinct
to listen took him close to little groups. Talk was all of the big
race. From a tall ‘toff’ he caught the word Calliope.
“Belongs to a bookie, they say.”
Bookie! Why not? Wasn’t a bookie as good as any other? Ah! and
sometimes better than these young snobs with everything to their hand!
A bookie--well, what chance had he ever had?
A big brown horse came by.
“That’s Deerstalker,” he heard the ‘toff’ say.
‘Jimmy’ gazed at George Pulcher’s fancy with a sort of hostility. Here
came another--Wasp, six stone ten, and Deerstalker nine stone--top and
bottom of the race!
‘My ’orse’d beat either o’ them,’ he thought stubbornly. ‘Don’t like
that Wasp.’
The distant roar was hushed. They were running in the first race! He
moved back to the gate. The quick clamour rose and dropped, and here
they came--back into the paddock, darkened with sweat, flanks heaving a
little!
‘Jimmy’ followed the winner, saw the jockey weigh in.
“What jockey’s that?” he asked.
“That? Why, Docker!”
‘Jimmy’ stared. A short, square, bow-legged figure, with a hardwood
face! Waiting his chance, he went up to him and said:
“Docker, you ride my ’orse in the big race.”
“Mr. Shrewin?”
“The same,” said ‘Jimmy.’ The jockey’s left eyelid drooped a little.
Nothing responded in ‘Jimmy’s’ face. “I’ll see you before the race,” he
said.
Again the jockey’s eyelid wavered, he nodded and passed on.
‘Jimmy’ stared at his own boots--they struck him suddenly as too yellow
and not at the right angle. But why, he couldn’t say.
More horses now--those of the first race being unsaddled, clothed, and
led away. More men--three familiar figures: young ‘Cocoon’ and two
others of his Oxford customers.
‘Jimmy’ turned sharply from them. Stand their airs?--not he! He had a
sudden sickish feeling. With a win, he’d have been a made man--on his
own! Blast George Pulcher and his caution! To think of being back in
Oxford with those young bloods jeering at his beaten horse! He bit deep
into the stump of his cheroot, and suddenly came on Jenning standing by
a horse with a star on its bay forehead. The trainer gave him no sign
of recognition, but signed to the boy to lead the horse into a stall,
and followed, shutting the door. It was exactly as if he had said:
‘Vermin about!’
An evil little smile curled ‘Jimmy’s’ lips. The tyke!
The horses for the second race passed out of the paddock gate, and he
turned to find his own. His ferreting eyes soon sighted Polman. What
the cat-faced fellow knew, or was thinking, ‘Jimmy’ could not tell.
Nobody could tell.
“Where’s the mare?” he said.
“Just coming round.”
No mistaking her; fine as a star; shiny-coated, sinuous, her blazed
face held rather high! Who said she was ’shelly’? She was a picture! He
walked a few paces close to the boy.
“That’s Calliope.... H’m!... Nice filly!... Looks fit.... Who’s this
James Shrewin?... What’s she at?... I like her looks.”
His horse! Not a prettier filly in the world!
He followed Polman into her stall to see her saddled. In the twilight
there he watched her toilet; the rub-over; the exact adjustments; the
bottle of water to the mouth; the buckling of the bridle--watched her
head high above the boy keeping her steady with gentle pulls of a rein
in each hand held out a little wide, and now and then stroking her
blazed nose; watched her pretence of nipping at his hand: he watched
the beauty of her exaggerated in this half-lit isolation away from the
others, the life and litheness in her satin body, the wilful expectancy
in her bright soft eyes.
Run a bye! This bit o’ blood--this bit o’ fire! This horse of his!
Deep within that shell of blue box-cloth against the stall partition a
thought declared itself: ‘I’m ---- if she shall! She can beat the lot!
And she’s ---- well going to!’
The door was thrown open, and she led out. He moved alongside. They
were staring at her, following her. No wonder! She was a picture, his
horse--his! She had gone to ‘Jimmy’s’ head.
They passed Jenning with Diamond Stud waiting to be mounted. ‘Jimmy’
shot him a look. Let the ---- wait!
His mare reached the palings and was halted. ‘Jimmy’ saw the short
square figure of her jockey, in the new magenta cap and jacket--_his_
cap, _his_ jacket! Beautiful they looked, and no mistake!
“A word with you,” he said.
The jockey halted, looked quickly round.
“All right, Mr. Shrewin. No need.”
‘Jimmy’s’ eyes smouldered at him; hardly moving his lips, he said,
intently: “You ---- well don’t! You’ll ---- well ride her to win. Never
mind _him_! If you don’t, I’ll have you off the Turf. Understand me!
You’ll ---- well ride ’er to win.”
The jockey’s jaw dropped.
“All right, Mr. Shrewin.”
“See it is,” said ‘Jimmy’ with a hiss....
“Mount jockeys!”
He saw magenta swing into the saddle. And suddenly, as if smitten with
the plague, he scuttled away.