"THE CURIOSITY."
The Saint's first appearance as a three-year-old was at Kempton Park in
the Pastures Handicap, a mile race on the Jubilee course. Having
wintered well, as the trainer anticipated, he developed into a fine
three-year-old, and in the early spring had a real good trial with some
first-class handicap horses. Fred May was exceedingly anxious to place
the colt well, and decided upon the Pastures Handicap because the
distance was suitable, and the class of horses he was likely to meet in
a five hundred pound race would not trouble him much.
Ulick agreed with him, and accordingly the Saint was entered.
Contrary to their expectations, there were some good horses in the race,
including the winner of the Lincolnshire Handicap, and a four-year-old
named Pinkerton, who had won the Jubilee Stakes the year before.
"We are in better company than I fancied we should be," said Fred May,
when he glanced down the entries, "and I expect we shall get a biggish
weight. We can strike him out if he is badly in."
The handicap, however, proved to be a good one, and although the Saint
had eight stone, a big weight early in the year for a three-year-old,
both Ulick and the trainer considered he had a chance. Pinkerton had
eight stone twelve, and this horse they considered the most dangerous.
There are few more enjoyable places than Kempton Park for racing in the
spring, or, in fact, at any time of the year.
Although the Pastures Handicap was not the principal race of the day, it
attracted the most attention, mainly on account of the Saint being a
runner. His two-year-old performances placed him almost on a par with
the Derby horses, and the favourite for that race would have been
regarded as a certainty in the handicap with eight stone. It was
generally acknowledged by the "clever division" that a four-year-old
like Pinkerton ought to be able to give the Saint twelve pounds. Mulgar,
Kit Cat, and Ringbell were also fair performers, and Kit Cat had been
booked as a "rod in pickle" for some time past. As she had only seven
stone, it was regarded as her "day out"--in other words, that the weight
was right and she was going for the money.
The ring was kept busy when betting was opened on the Pastures Handicap.
Four to one bar one, was first shouted, Pinkerton being the favourite,
but these odds soon expanded until it was four to one on the field.
In the paddock the Saint was the great attraction. Everyone knew his
two-year-old performances, and his remarkable colour always caused a
mild sensation. He was "washy" enough as a two-year-old, but this spring
he was almost white with a few "flea-bitten" spots on him.
"Looks as if he'd been powdered with black pepper and salt," was one
characteristic remark, which certainly hit the mark.
Despite his colour, there was no mistaking the quality and fitness of
the horse. He had been perfectly trained, hard and clean in his coat, no
dandified polish on it, but a real glow of health.
"He'd make the Derby horses go if they ran against him now," said a
well-known pressman.
"You are right, Harry. I fancy he'd start pretty near favourite. I think
I shall back him," was the answer of a brother scribe.
The ladies crowded round "the curiosity," as the Saint was nicknamed,
and a horse with a nickname is as popular as a rosy-cheeked schoolboy
dubbed "apples." A nickname is a sure sign of something out of the
common in man, boy, or horse.
"The curiosity" took the mobbing in good part, it troubled him not at
all, although he condescendingly glanced round the ring from time to
time, and, as Fred May saddled him, made playful snaps at his coat, and
once succeeded in securing his hat.
Ben Sprig was to ride the Saint; a good jockey with a reputation for
honesty. He was a miniature man, about thirty-five, capable of riding
seven stone if necessary. His face was a study. Ben Sprig seldom smiled
outwardly; he seemed to conceal all expressions of joy inside his small
frame, and the only signs of pleasure experienced were sundry chuckles
that sounded like the cracking of nuts. He spoke jerkily, shooting out
his words like darts, and taking time to consider between each one. His
complexion was bronze, and his eyes were small and brown. He had
beautifully-shaped small hands and feet, of which he was very proud. He
was dapper in his dress, and always clean and spruce. His humour was
proverbial, and as he always had a solemn countenance it proved the more
effective. A man who laughs at his own jokes is like an advertiser who
stares at his own advertisements. There was none of the advertising
agent about Ben Sprig.
"Where's Ben?" asked May, as the bell rang.
"I'll hunt him up," said Ulick, as he hurried off towards the jockey's
room.
Ben Sprig was a thorn in the side of all clerks of the course. They
invariably had to hurry him up, and in nine cases out of ten he was
always the last to leave the paddock. He had a habit of sneaking his
mount up the course when the majority of the spectators thought all the
horses were at the post.
"Come along, Ben," said Ulick. "I never saw such a fellow, you are
always last."
"Leaving the paddock," said Ben, solemnly.
Ulick laughed as he replied, "Not always in that position at the finish,
I grant you."
Ben was walking slowly along, the olive green jacket adopted by Ulick
being almost hidden beneath a coat which came down to the heels of his
boots.
Ulick was striding along in front; the clerk of the course gesticulating
furiously at Ben, who took no notice whatever of him.
"Hurry up," he said, as he rode up to the jockey. "You're always last, I
wonder you are not fined every time for being late at the post."
Ben pointed solemnly to the clock, and said--
"They are always behind time when you are clerk of the course."
Ben was quickly in the saddle, and rode the Saint quietly out on to the
course, which was cleared of the crowd. He sidled up to the rails, and
slipped along past the stands. He was almost rounding the bend before
the people recognised the colours.
"I thought the Saint had gone down long ago?" said one.
"That's a trick of Ben Sprig's, he generally goes up last," was the
reply.
The noise at Tattersall's was deafening, and although Pinkerton was a
slight favourite, the money had poured in for Kit Cat to such an extent
that she was about the worst runner in many of the books.
The Saint stood at six to one, and Ulick had succeeded in obtaining a
point longer for his money.
There was no delay at the post, Mr. Coventry sending them off in his
usual style.
Kit Cat was quickly on her legs, and came along at a great pace, the
golden stars on the black jacket of her rider glittering in the
sunlight. Mulgar's white jacket also showed prominently, and after a gap
came Pinkerton, and the olive green on the Saint.
From the start the pace was fast, and Kit Cat was making the most of her
light weight. She had an easy style of going, and looked strong enough
to carry a couple of stone more. Her owner had not waited in vain to get
in with seven stone, and the money proved the mare could go when
required. He was regarded, not without reason, as a very smart man. His
name, Conrad Rush, had often figured against large winning accounts in
Monday's settlement, and the ring had a wholesale dread of him. He never
did anything underhand, but he possessed an amount of patience that
fairly wore the handicappers out.
The golden stars leading in a mile race meant mischief, and already
backers of Kit Cat were on good terms with themselves. The mare rounded
the bend going in grand style, revelling in her light weight, and
pulling hard. So far, it was a one-horse race, but creeping up on the
rails not far behind were Pinkerton's blue jacket, the Saint, and
Mulgar. To these four horses it soon became evident the race belonged;
which would win?
Already the murmur of many voices could be heard in the rings. The sound
gradually increased until it swelled into a roar, and louder and louder
it became as the horses drew nearer.
Kit Cat still held a commanding lead, and it seemed almost impossible
she could be caught.
"They don't win there," said Fred May to Ulick, "and the Saint has a
rare turn of speed."
"It's a lot of ground to make up," he replied, "but I hope he'll do it.
Pinkerton is running well, but Kit Cat has such a light weight she ought
to last it out."
"I fancy Conrad Rush has overshot his mark this time. I have never seen
the mare cover a mile. She may do it, but I doubt it. Look at her
now--by Jove, she's done, I felt pretty sure of it."
Ulick saw the rider on Kit Cat "niggling" at her, and a second or two
later he raised his whip as he heard the horses behind drawing nearer.
The bookmakers were jubilant and howled with delight.
Kit Cat responded to the call, but it was a mere flash in the pan.
Pinkerton was the first to tackle her on the outside, and as he drew
level she swerved towards him and bored him out. This left an opening on
the rails, which looked dangerous to squeeze through. Ben Sprig never
flinched when he got a chance, however small he took it. He did so on
this occasion. He was watching the two horses in front of him with keen
eyes, and no sooner did Kit Cat swerve than he slid the Saint forward
with one great effort and secured the lead.
It was a clever bit of jockeyship on the part of the rider, a marvellous
run on the part of the horse, and the combined effort drew forth a
hearty cheer.
The rider of Pinkerton had not expected this; he fancied the Saint was
shut in on the rails, and would have to go round him on the outside.
When he saw the olive green jacket on the other side of Kit Cat, it is
needless to say he was surprised.
Pinkerton was not beaten, and as the pair cleared Kit Cat a tremendous
race home ensued. It was a thrilling moment. Pinkerton had won over this
course, and that was in his favour. The Saint had not run on it before.
The four-year-old and the three-year-old struggled gamely on, with a
difference of twelve pounds between them.
Ulick was excited; he had not seen the Saint in such a tight place
before, and he hoped he would get out of it.
The horses were close to the winning post, a few more strides would
decide it. They fought out every yard of the ground. Ben Sprig was a
great finisher. He graduated in a good school, and he clung to the old
tradition that a bit left for a finish is worth a hundred yards at any
other part of the race.
His face was set, and his little eyes gleamed. His small hands gripped
the reins firmly, his knees pressed the Saint's sides, and he helped the
horse all he knew how. The olive jacket and the blue were level, the
next few strides would do it; which would win?
A moment of suspense, a second or two of breathless silence, then a
mighty shout.
"The Saint! The Saint!"
Ulick echoed the cry.
"The Saint wins!" he shouted.
Ben Sprig's immovable face showed no signs of the triumph within. He
knew he had ridden one of his best races, he felt much of the success
was due to his horsemanship, and he was pleased with himself. He slid
past the judge's box about three parts of a length in front of
Pinkerton, with Kit Cat a bad third.
The Saint's performance was acknowledged on all sides to be a great one,
and "the curiosity" was mobbed as Ben rode him in amidst cheers. Mr.
Lanark was not well known, but the Saint had made the olive green jacket
popular.
"You rode a splendid race, Ben," said Ulick. "I think the best you ever
rode on him."
Ben Sprig had ridden the Saint throughout his two-year-old career.
"I agree with you," jerked Ben. "I did ride a good race, the saints be
praised."
"I expect you felt a bit uneasy when you squeezed through on the rails?"
laughed Ulick.
"Not at all; I'm used to squeezing. I've been squeezing all my life to
make both ends meet," said Ben.
"Then from all accounts you have squeezed to some purpose," said Ulick,
for Ben Sprig was reported to be rich.
"I could lend some of 'em a trifle, I have no doubt," he replied, "but
look at the time I have been at it."
They joined Fred May in the paddock, and looked at the Saint walking
round.
"He's the rummiest coloured beggar I ever rode or saw," said Ben.
"Bar his colour, what do you think of him?" asked May.
"He's an out-and-out good one, and as game as they make 'em. If it came
to a match between him and the Derby winner I would back him, provided I
rode him."
"That's a pretty tall order," said Ulick.
"It would come off, you can take my word for it," he replied.
A friend came up to Ulick, and they walked away together. After some
conversation as to the merits of the Saint's victory, he said--
"How are you going back to town--by train?"
"Yes," replied Ulick.
"I have to go on to Windsor. Drive with me to Feltham and go to Waterloo
from there, unless you will come with me?"
Ulick thanked him, said he would drive to Feltham, but declined to go to
Windsor.
After the races they took a carriage to Feltham, driving through
Hanworth Park, and down the High Street.
They were chatting over racing matters, when his friend exclaimed--
"By Jove! there's a pretty girl--well dressed, too."
Ulick looked up and gave a start of surprise.
It was Janet Todd. She had not seen him, of that he felt sure. She was
going down the street, and he resolved to leave his friend at the
station, walk back, and meet her. It was a lucky chance that caused him
to come this way back from the races.
"Do you know her?" asked his friend, smiling, as he saw him start.
"I fancy I do; I am almost sure of it. I think I'll walk back and meet
her after I leave you," he replied.
"I don't blame you, my friend," he said, laughing. "Does she come from
your part of the world?"
"I am almost sure of it," replied Ulick; "at any rate, I mean to find
out."
"Good luck to you," laughed his friend, as he shook hands and went into
the station.