GEORGE GOES FOR THE GLOVES
On the Thursday of the Epsom Summer Meeting, George Pendyce sat in the
corner of a first-class railway-carriage trying to make two and two into
five. On a sheet of Stoics' Club note-paper his racing-debts were stated
to a penny--one thousand and forty five pounds overdue, and below, seven
hundred and fifty lost at the current meeting. Below these again his
private debts were indicated by the round figure of one thousand pounds.
It was round by courtesy, for he had only calculated those bills which
had been sent in, and Providence, which knows all things, preferred the
rounder figure of fifteen hundred. In sum, therefore, he had against him
a total of three thousand two hundred and ninety-five pounds. And
since at Tattersalls and the Stock Exchange, where men are engaged in
perpetual motion, an almost absurd punctiliousness is required in the
payment of those sums which have for the moment inadvertently been lost,
seventeen hundred and ninety-five of this must infallibly be raised by
Monday next. Indeed, only a certain liking for George, a good loser and
a good winner, and the fear of dropping a good customer, had induced the
firm of bookmakers to let that debt of one thousand and forty-five stand
over the Epsom Meeting.
To set against these sums (in which he had not counted his current
trainer's bill, and the expenses, which he could not calculate, of
the divorce suit), he had, first, a bank balance which he might still
overdraw another twenty pounds; secondly, the Ambler and two bad selling
platers; and thirdly (more considerable item), X, or that which he
might, or indeed must, win over the Ambler's race this afternoon.
Whatever else, it was not pluck that was lacking in the character of
George Pendyce. This quality was in his fibre, in the consistency of
his blood, and confronted with a situation which, to some men, and
especially to men not brought up on the hereditary plan, might have
seemed desperate, he exhibited no sign of anxiety or distress. Into the
consideration of his difficulties he imported certain principles: (1) He
did not intend to be posted at Tattersalls. Sooner than that he would go
to the Jews; the entail was all he could look to borrow on; the Hebrews
would force him to pay through the nose. (2) He did not intend to
show the white feather, and in backing his horse meant to “go for the
gloves.” (3) He did not intend to think of the future; the thought of
the present was quite bad enough.
The train bounded and swung as though rushing onwards to a tune, and
George sat quietly in his corner.
Amongst his fellows in the carriage was the Hon. Geoffrey Winlow, who,
though not a racing-man, took a kindly interest in our breed of horses,
which by attendance at the principal meetings he hoped to improve.
“Your horse going to run, George?”
George nodded.
“I shall have a fiver on him for luck. I can't afford to bet. Saw your
mother at the Foxholme garden-party last week. You seen them lately?”
George shook his head and felt an odd squeeze: at his heart.
“You know they had a fire at old Peacock's farm; I hear the Squire and
Barter did wonders. He's as game as a pebble, the Squire.”
Again George nodded, and again felt that squeeze at his heart.
“Aren't they coming to town this season?”
“Haven't heard,” answered George. “Have a cigar?”
Winlow took the cigar, and cutting it with a small penknife, scrutinised
George's square face with his leisurely eyes. It needed a physiognomist
to penetrate its impassivity. Winlow thought to himself:
'. shouldn't be surprised if what they say about old George is true.'...
“Had a good meeting so far?”
“So-so.”
They parted on the racecourse. George went at once to see his trainer
and thence into Tattersalls' ring. He took with him that equation with
X, and sought the society of two gentlemen quietly dressed, one of whom
was making a note in a little book with a gold pencil. They greeted him
respectfully, for it was to them that he owed the bulk of that seventeen
hundred and ninety-five pounds.
“What price will you lay against my horse?”
“Evens, Mr. Pendyce,” replied the gentleman with the gold pencil, “to a
monkey.”
George booked the bet. It was not his usual way of doing business, but
to-day everything seemed different, and something stronger than custom
was at work.
'. am going for the gloves,' he thought; 'if it doesn't come off, I'm
done anyhow.'
He went to another quietly dressed gentleman with a diamond pin and
a Jewish face. And as he went from one quietly dressed gentleman to
another there preceded him some subtle messenger, who breathed the
words, 'Mr. Pendyce is going for the gloves,' so that at each visit he
found they had greater confidence than ever in his horse. Soon he had
promised to pay two thousand pounds if the Ambler lost, and received the
assurance of eminent gentlemen, quietly dressed, that they would pay him
fifteen hundred if the Ambler won. The odds now stood at two to one
on, and he had found it impossible to back the Ambler for “a place,” in
accordance with his custom.
'.ade a fool of myself,' he thought; 'ought never to have gone into
the ring at all; ought to have let Barney's work it quietly. It doesn't
matter!'
He still required to win three hundred pounds to settle on the Monday,
and laid a final bet of seven hundred to three hundred and fifty pounds
upon his horse. Thus, without spending a penny, simply by making a few
promises, he had solved the equation with X.
On leaving the ring, he entered the bar and drank some whisky. He then
went to the paddock. The starting-bell for the second race had rung;
there was hardly anyone there, but in a far corner the Ambler was being
led up and down by a boy.
George glanced round to see that no acquaintances were near, and joined
in this promenade. The Ambler turned his black, wild eye, crescented
with white, threw up his head, and gazed far into the distance.
'.f one could only make him understand!' thought George.
When his horse left the paddock for the starting-post George went back
to the stand. At the bar he drank some more whisky, and heard someone
say:
“I had to lay six to four. I want to find Pendyce; they say he's backed
it heavily.”
George put down his glass, and instead of going to his usual place,
mounted slowly to the top of the stand.
'. don't want them buzzing round me,' he thought.
At the top of the stand--that national monument, visible for twenty
miles around--he knew himself to be safe. Only “the many” came here, and
amongst the many he thrust himself till at the very top he could rest
his glasses on a rail and watch the colours. Besides his own peacock
blue there was a straw, a blue with white stripes, a red with white
stars.
They say that through the minds of drowning men troop ghosts of past
experience. It was not so with George; his soul was fastened on that
little daub of peacock blue. Below the glasses his lips were colourless
from hard compression; he moistened them continually. The four little
Coloured daubs stole into line, the flag fell.
“They're off!” That roar, like the cry of a monster, sounded all around.
George steadied his glasses on the rail. Blue with white stripes was
leading, the Ambler lying last. Thus they came round the further bend.
And Providence, as though determined that someone should benefit by his
absorption, sent a hand sliding under George's elbows, to remove the pin
from his tie and slide away. Round Tattenham Corner George saw his horse
take the lead. So, with straw closing up, they came into the straight.
The Ambler's jockey looked back and raised his whip; in that instant, as
if by magic, straw drew level; down came the whip on the Ambler's flank;
again as by magic straw was in front. The saying of his old jockey
darted through George's mind: “Mark my words, sir, that 'orse knows
what's what, and when they're like that they're best let alone.”
“Sit still, you fool!” he muttered.
The whip came down again; straw was two lengths in front.
Someone behind said:
“The favourite's beat! No, he's not, by Jove!” For as though George's
groan had found its way to the jockey's ears, he dropped his whip. The
Ambler sprang forward. George saw that he was gaining. All his soul went
out to his horse's struggle. In each of those fifteen seconds he died
and was born again; with each stride all that was loyal and brave in
his nature leaped into flame, all that was base sank, for he himself was
racing with his horse, and the sweat poured down his brow. And his lips
babbled broken sounds that no one heard, for all around were babbling
too.
Locked together, the Ambler and straw ran home. Then followed a
hush, for no one knew which of the two had won. The numbers went up
“Seven-Two-Five.”
“The favourite's second! Beaten by a nose!” said a voice.
George bowed his head, and his whole spirit felt numb. He closed his
glasses and moved with the crowd to the stairs. A voice behind him said:
“He'd have won in another stride!”
Another answered:
“I hate that sort of horse. He curled up at the whip.”
George ground his teeth.
“Curse you!” he muttered, “you little Cockney; what do you know about a
horse?”
The crowd surged; the speakers were lost to sight.
The long descent from the stand gave him time. No trace of emotion
showed on his face when he appeared in the paddock. Blacksmith the
trainer stood by the Ambler's stall.
“That idiot Tipping lost us the race, sir,” he began with quivering
lips. “If he'd only left him alone, the horse would have won in a
canter. What on earth made him use his whip? He deserves to lose his
license. He----”
The gall and bitterness of defeat surged into George's brain.
“It's no good your talking, Blacksmith,” he said; “you put him up. What
the devil made you quarrel with Swells?”
The little man's chin dropped in sheer surprise.
George turned away, and went up to the jockey, but at the sick look on
the poor youth's face the angry words died off his tongue.
“All right, Tipping; I'm not going to rag you.” And with the ghost of
a smile he passed into the Ambler's stall. The groom had just finished
putting him to rights; the horse stood ready to be led from the field of
his defeat. The groom moved out, and George went to the Ambler's head.
There is no place, no corner, on a racecourse where a man may show his
heart. George did but lay his forehead against the velvet of his horse's
muzzle, and for one short second hold it there. The Ambler awaited the
end of that brief caress, then with a snort threw up his head, and with
his wild, soft eyes seemed saying, 'You fools! what do you know of me?'
George stepped to one side.
“Take him away,” he said, and his eyes followed the Ambler's receding
form.
A racing-man of a different race, whom he knew and did not like, came up
to him as he left the paddock.
“I suppothe you won't thell your horse, Pendythe?” he said. “I'll give
you five thou. for him. He ought never to have lotht; the beating won't
help him with the handicappers a little bit.”
'.ou carrion crow!' thought George.
“Thanks; he's not for sale,” he answered.
He went back to the stand, but at every step and in each face, he seemed
to see the equation which now he could only solve with X2. Thrice he
went into the bar. It was on the last of these occasions that he said to
himself: “The horse must go. I shall never have a horse like him again.”
Over that green down which a hundred thousand feet had trodden
brown, which a hundred thousand hands had strewn with bits of paper,
cigar-ends, and the fragments of discarded food, over the great
approaches to the battlefield, where all was pathway leading to and
from the fight, those who make livelihood in such a fashion, least
and littlest followers, were bawling, hawking, whining to the warriors
flushed with victory or wearied by defeat. Over that green down, between
one-legged men and ragged acrobats, women with babies at the breast,
thimble-riggers, touts, walked George Pendyce, his mouth hard set and
his head bent down.
“Good luck, Captain, good luck to-morrow; good luck, good luck!... For
the love of Gawd, your lordship!... Roll, bowl, or pitch!”
The sun, flaming out after long hiding, scorched the back of his neck;
the free down wind, fouled by foetid odours, brought to his ears the
monster's last cry, “They're off!”
A voice hailed him.
George turned and saw Winlow, and with a curse and a smile he answered:
“Hallo!”
The Hon. Geoffrey ranged alongside, examining George's face at leisure.
“Afraid you had a bad race, old chap! I hear you've sold the Ambler to
that fellow Guilderstein.”
In George's heart something snapped.
'.lready?' he thought. 'The brute's been crowing. And it's that little
bounder that my horse--my horse....'
He answered calmly:
“Wanted the money.”
Winlow, who was not lacking in cool discretion, changed the subject.
Late that evening George sat in the Stoics' window overlooking
Piccadilly. Before his eyes, shaded by his hand, the hansoms passed,
flying East and West, each with the single pale disc of face, or the
twin discs of faces close together; and the gentle roar of the town came
in, and the cool air refreshed by night. In the light of the lamps the
trees of the Green Park stood burnished out of deep shadow where nothing
moved; and high over all, the stars and purple sky seemed veiled with
golden gauze. Figures without end filed by. Some glanced at the lighted
windows and the man in the white shirt-front sitting there. And many
thought: 'Wish I were that swell, with nothing to do but step into his
father's shoes;' and to many no thought came. But now and then some
passer murmured to himself: “Looks lonely sitting there.”
And to those faces gazing up, George's lips were grim, and over them
came and went a little bitter smile; but on his forehead he felt still
the touch of his horse's muzzle, and his eyes, which none could see,
were dark with pain.