He scuttled to where he could see them going down--seventeen. No
need to search for his colours; they blazed, like George Pulcher’s
countenance, or a rhododendron bush in sunlight, above that bright
chestnut with the white nose, curvetting a little as she was led past.
Now they came cantering--Deerstalker in the lead.
“He’s a hell of a horse, Deerstalker!” said someone behind.
‘Jimmy’ cast a nervous glance around. No sign of George Pulcher!
One by one they cantered past, and he watched them with a cold feeling
in his stomach. Still unused to sight of the creatures out of which he
made his living, they _all_ seemed to him hells of horses!
The same voice said:
“New colours! Well, you can see ’em, and the mare too. She’s a showy
one. Calliope? She’s goin’ back in the bettin’, though.”
‘Jimmy’ moved up through the Ring.
“Four to one on the field!” “Six Deerstalker!” “Sevens Magistrate!”
“Ten to one Wasp!” “Ten to one Calliope!” “Four to one Diamond
Stud--Four to one on the field!”
Steady as a rock, that horse of Jenning, and his own going back!
“Twelves Calliope!” he heard, just as he reached the stand. The
telepathic genius of the Ring missed nothing--almost!
A cold shiver went through him. What had he done by his words to
Docker? Spoiled the golden egg laid so carefully? But perhaps she
couldn’t win even if they let her! He began to mount the stand, his
mind in the most acute confusion.
A voice said: “Hullo, Jimmy! Is she going to win?”
One of his young Oxford sparks was jammed against him on the stairway!
He raised his lip in a sort of snarl, and, huddling himself, slipped
through and up ahead. He came out and edged in close to the stairs
where he could get play for his glasses. Behind him one of those who
improve the shining hour among backers cut off from opportunity was
intoning the odds a point shorter than below. “Three to one on the
field!” “Fives Deerstalker!” “Eight to one Wasp!”
“What price Calliope?” said ‘Jimmy’ sharply.
“Hundred to eight.”
“Done!” Handing him the eight, he took the ticket. Behind him the man’s
eyes moved fishily, and he resumed his incantation.
“Three to one on the field!... Three to one on the field! Six to one
Magistrate!”
On the wheeling bunch of colours at the start ‘Jimmy’ trained
his glasses. Something had broken clean away and come half the
course--something in yellow.
“Eights Magistrate. Nine to one Magistrate,” drifted up.
So they had spotted that! Precious little they didn’t spot!
Magistrate was round again, and being ridden back. ‘Jimmy’ rested
his glasses a moment, and looked down. Swarms in the Cheap Ring,
Tattersalls, the stands--a crowd so great you could lose George Pulcher
in it. Just below a little man was making silent, frantic signals
with his arms to someone across in the Cheap Ring. ‘Jimmy’ raised his
glasses. In line now--magenta third from the rails!
“They’re off!” The hush, you could cut it with a knife! Something in
green away on the right--Wasp! What a bat they were going! And a sort
of numbness in ‘Jimmy’s’ mind cracked suddenly; his glasses shook; his
thin, weasley face became suffused and quivered. Magenta--magenta--two
from the rails! He could make no story of the race such as he would
read in to-morrow’s paper--he could see nothing but magenta.
Out of the dip now, and coming fast--green still leading--something in
violet, something in tartan, closing.
“Wasp’s beat!” “The favourite--the favourite wins!”
“Deerstalker--Deerstalker wins! What’s that in pink on the rails?”
It was _his_ in pink on the rails! Behind him a man went suddenly mad.
“Deerstalker! Come on with ’im, Stee! Deerstalker’ll
win--Deerstalker’ll win!”
‘Jimmy’ sputtered venomously: “Will ’e? Will ’e?”
Deerstalker and his own out from the rest--opposite the Cheap
Ring--neck and neck--Docker riding like a demon.
“Deerstalker! Deerstalker!” “Calliope wins! She wins!”
Gawd! His horse! They flashed past--fifty yards to go, and not a head
between ’em!
“Deerstalker! Deerstalker!” “Calliope!”
He saw his mare shoot out--she’d won!
With a little queer sound he squirmed and wriggled on to the stairs. No
thoughts while he squeezed, and slid, and hurried--only emotion--out of
the Ring, away to the paddock. His horse!
Docker had weighed in when he reached the mare. All right! He passed
with a grin. ‘Jimmy’ turned almost into the body of Polman standing
like an image.
“Well, Mr. Shrewin,” he said to nobody, “she’s won.”
‘Damn you!’ thought ‘Jimmy.’ ‘Damn the lot of you!’ And he went up to
his mare. Quivering, streaked with sweat, impatient of the gathering
crowd, she showed the whites of her eyes when he put his hand up to her
nose.
“Good girl!” he said, and watched her led away.
‘Gawd! I want a drink!’ he thought.
Gingerly, keeping a sharp lookout for Pulcher, he returned to the
stand to get it, and to draw his hundred. But up there by the stairs
the discreet fellow was no more. On the ticket was the name O. H.
Jones, and nothing else. ‘Jimmy’ Shrewin had been welshed! He went down
at last in a bad temper. At the bottom of the staircase stood George
Pulcher. The big man’s face was crimson, his eyes ominous. He blocked
‘Jimmy’ into a corner.
“Ah!” he said. “You little crow! What the ’ell made you speak to
Docker?”
‘Jimmy’ grinned. Some new body within him stood there defiant. “She’s
my ’orse,” he said.
“You ---- Gawd-forsaken rat! If I ’ad you in a quiet spot, I’d shake
the life out of you!”
‘Jimmy’ stared up, his little spindle legs apart, like a cock-sparrow
confronting an offended pigeon.
“Go ’ome,” he said, “George Pulcher; and get your mother to mend your
socks. You don’t know ’ow! Thought I wasn’t a man, did you? Well, now
you ---- well know I am. Keep off my ’orse in future.”
Crimson rushed up on crimson in Pulcher’s face; he raised his heavy
fists. ‘Jimmy’ stood, unmoving, his little hands in his bell-coat
pockets, his withered face upraised. The big man gulped as if
swallowing back the tide of blood; his fists edged forward and
then--dropped.
“That’s better,” said ‘Jimmy,’ “hit one of your own size.”
Emitting a deep growl, George Pulcher walked away.
“Two to one on the field--I’ll back the field--Two to one on the
field.” “Threes Snowdrift--Fours Iron Dook.”
‘Jimmy’ stood a moment mechanically listening to the music of his life;
then, edging out, he took a fly and was driven to the station.
All the way up to town he sat chewing his cheroot with the glow of
drink inside him, thinking of that finish, and of how he had stood up
to George Pulcher. For a whole day he was lost in London, but Friday
saw him once more at his seat of custom in the ‘Corn.’ Not having laid
against his horse, he had had a good race in spite of everything; yet,
the following week, uncertain into what further quagmires of quixotry
she might lead him, he sold Calliope.
But for years betting upon horses that he never saw, underground like a
rat, yet never again so accessible to the kicks of fortune, or so prone
before the shafts of superiority, he would think of the Downs with the
blinkin’ larks singin’, and talk of how once he--had a horse.
1923.