The Three J's
Old Mat was fond of telling his intimates that Monkey Brand was fly.
"He do love his little bit o' roguey-poguey," he would say with a
twinkle. And it was the old man's opinion, often expressed, that weight
for age Monkey would beat the crooks at their own game every time.
And when he set the little jockey to snout about and rout out the
business of Joses, he knew he was setting his head-lad a task after his
heart.
Monkey Brand had gone to work indeed with the tenacity and the tact that
distinguished him. Once on a line, he hunted it with the ruthlessness of
a stoat. But this time, it seemed, he had met his match. If Monkey was
cunning as a fox, Joses was wary as a lynx.
The fat man watched the other's manoeuvres with eyes that did not
disguise their amusement. He was always ready for a chat in which Monkey
liberally be-larded him with sirs, was obsequious and deferential; but
he would never cross the door of a public-house, and never, as the
little man reported, "let on."
It was by a chance the seeker came on the clue at last.
One evening he marked his victim down in the Post Office and followed
him quietly. Joses was at the counter sending a telegram. The
postmistress, unable to read the code-address, had asked for
enlightenment.
"Spavin," Joses said; and the secret was out. For all the world knew
that Spavin was the code-address of the shady and successful trainer at
Dewhurst on the Arunvale side of the Downs.
"Who said Jaggers?" came a little voice at his elbow.
The fat man turned to find the jockey close behind him.
"I did," he answered brazenly.
Monkey smiled the smile of a bottle-fed cherub.
"'Ow's my ole pal Chukkers?" he piped.
Joses grinned.
"Just back," he said.
"So I hears," answered the other. "Been teachin' 'em tricks in
Horsetralia, ain't he? Went there by way of God's Country, same as per
usual, huntin' fer black diamonds. What's he brought back this
journey?--a pink-eyed broncho from the Prairees bought for ten cents
from a Texas cow-puncher, and guaranteed to show the English plugs the
way to move."
Joses wagged a shaggy head. If to retain a sense of humour is still to
possess something of a soul, then the fat man was not entirely lost.
"You love Chukkers, don't you?" he said.
"Don't I love all dagos?" asked Monkey. "Sich a pretty little way with
'em they got. Same as a baa-lamb in the meadow 'mong the buttercups."
"Then now I'll tell you something for yourself," said Joses. "He loves
all the English--owners, jockeys, and crowd. But he loves _you_ best."
"Never!" cried Monkey, greatly moved. "Then I'm the man what won the
Greaser's Heart. It's too much."
A few further inquiries, made by Mat, put the thing beyond question.
Joses was watcher for Jaggers, who trained for Ikey Aaronsohnn, for whom
Chukkers rode.
In England, Australia, and the Americas, the three were always spoken of
together as the Three J's--Jaggers, the Jockey, and the Jew. Wherever
horses raced their fame was great, and amongst the English at least it
was evil and ominous.
"Rogues and rasqueals!" Old Mat would say with one of his deep sighs.
"But whatebber should we do without 'em?"
For Putnam's the Three J's had always possessed a particular interest.
Their stable was at Dewhurst, just behind Arunvah, at the other end of
the South Downs. And Dewhurst had been for twenty years the centre of
that campaign to lower the colours of the English thoroughbred, which
Ikey Aaronsohnn had embarked upon in his unforgotten youth.
The little Levantine hailed from New York, Hamburg, and
London--especially the first two. A cosmopolitan banker, and genial
rascal, he had, even in England, a host of friends, and deserved them. A
man of ideals, and extremely tenacious, _objets d'art_ and steeplechase
horses had been his twin passions from his childhood. He collected both
with a judgment amounting to genius. And there were few experts in
either kind who were not prepared to acknowledge him their master.
The day when Ikey, then young, sure of himself, and enthusiastic, had
been called a "bloody little German Jew" in the Paddock at Liverpool by
a noble English sportsman, as he led his first winner home, had been
forgotten by others but not by him. And when a year later the little man
stood for White's Club, on the strength of winning the International,
and was black-balled, the die was cast.
There was no doubt that Ikey had his qualities. Whether he was your
friend or your enemy, he never forgot you; and he gave you cause to
remember him. His memory was long; his temper not to be ruffled; his
humour, in victory and defeat, invincible; his purse unfathomable. He
was never known to be angry, impetuous, or bitter. And he never deviated
from his aim. That aim, as he once told the New York Yacht Club, in
words that were trumpeted across the world, was "to lick the English
thoroughbred on his own ground, at his own game, all the time, and every
way."
What P. Forilland had done for a previous generation of Americans, when
Iroquois snatched the Blue Riband of the Turf from the English and bore
it across the Atlantic, Ikey meant to do some day at Liverpool.
"We've wopped 'em once on the flat, and we'll wop 'em yet across
country," he once said at Meadow Brook.
It was with this end in view that Chukkers, then a kid-jockey from the
West, had crossed the ocean in Ikey's train, and first carried to
victory the star-spangled jacket which for the past twenty years had
caused such heart-burnings among the English owners, trainers, and
jockeys, and such mingled enthusiasm and indignation in the
uncertain-tempered English crowd.
In that twenty years Ikey, if he had never yet achieved his end and won
the Grand National with an other-than-English horse, had given the
Englishmen such a shaking as they had never experienced before.
All over the world, wherever horses were bred, from the Punjab to the
Pampas, and from the Tenterfield Ranges to Old Virginia, he had his
scouts and his stud-farms. It was said that if a wall-eyed pack mule,
carrying quartz in the Nevadas, showed a disposition to gallop and jump
he would be in Ikey's stable in a fortnight, and, if he made good, at
Dewhurst within six months.
It was, of course, with the Walers that the little Levantine came
nearest his desire. He imported them into the old country on a scale
never before dreamed of. Some of them proved themselves great horses,
the equals of the best the English could bring against them: all were
good. And it was only by an act of God, as the enemy English declared,
that Boomerang, the king of them, had failed to win the National and
consummate his owner's long-delayed end.
But Ikey, that merry little rogue, the cup of victory dashed from his
lips, never for a moment lost heart.
As he truly said,
"If I haven't yet found the horse, I've found the jockey that can beat
their best."
And in time he would find the horse, too.
He believed that. So did America.