A RACE AGAINST TIME
There's a certain old Sprinter; you've got to be keen,
If you'd beat him--although he is bald,
And he carries a clock and a mowing-machine.
On the cinderpath "Tempus" he's called.
_Stanza written to order by young English friend,
but (I fear) copied from Poet Tennyson._
Ah! with what perfervid affection did Mr Bhosh caress the neck of his
precious horse! How carefully he searched her to make sure that she had
sustained no internal poisonings or other dilapidations!
Thank goodness! He was unable to detect any flaw within or without--the
probability being that the crafty Duchess did not dare to commit such a
breach of decorum as to poison a Derby favourite, and thought to
accomplish her fell design by leaving the mare as lost luggage and
destroying the ticket-receipt.
But old Time had already lifted the glass to his lips, and the contents
were rapidly running down, so Mr Bhosh, approaching a railway director,
politely requested him to hook a horse-box on to the next Epsom train.
What was his surprise to hear that this could not be done until all
Derby trains had first absented themselves! With passionate volubility
he pleaded that, if such a law of Medes and Persians was to be insisted
on, _Milky Way_ would infallibly arrive at Epsom several hours too late
to compete in the Derby race, in which she was already morally
victorious--until at length the official relented, and agreed to do the
job for valuable consideration in hard cash.
Lackadaisy! after excavating all his pockets, our unhappy hero could
only fork out wherewithal enough for third-class single ticket for
himself, and he accordingly petitioned that his mare might travel as
baggage in the guard's van.
I am not to say whether the officials at this leading terminus were all
in the pay of the Duchess, since I am naturally reluctant to advance so
serious a charge against such industrious and talented parties, but it
is _nem. con._ that Mr Bhosh's very reasonable request was nilled in
highly offensive cut-and-dried fashion, and he was curtly recommended to
walk himself and his horse off the platform.
_Que faire?_ How was it humanly possible for any horse to win the Derby
race without putting in an appearance? And how was _Milky Way_ to put in
her appearance if she was not allowed access to any Epsom train? A less
wilful and persevering individual than Mr Bhosh would have certainly
succumbed under so much red-tapery, but it only served to arouse
Bindabun's monkey.
"How far is the distance to Epsom?" he inquired.
"Fourteen miles," he was answered.
"And what o'clock the Derby race?"
"About one P.M."
"And it is now just the middle of the day!" exclaimed Bindabun. "Very
well, since it seems _Milky Way_ is not to ride in the railway, she
shall cover the distance on shank's mare, for I will ride her to Epsom
in _propria persona_!"
[Illustration: THE ROAD WAS CHOCKED FULL WITH EVERY DESCRIPTION OF
CONVEYANCE (Illustration VII)]
So courageous a determination elicited loud cheers from the bystanders,
who cordially advised him to put his best legs foremost as he mounted
his mettlesome crack, and set off with broken-necked speed for Epsom.
I must request my indulgent readers to excuse this humble pen from
depicting the horrors of that wild and desperate ride. Suffice it to say
that the road was chocked full with every description of conveyance, and
that Mr Bhosh was haunted by two terrible apprehensions, viz., that he
might meet with some shocking upset, and that he should arrive the day
after the fair.
As he urged on his headlong career, he was constantly inquiring of the
occupants of the various vehicles if he was still in time for the Derby,
and they invariably hallooed to him that if he desired to witness the
spectacle he was to buck himself up.
Mr Bhosh bucked himself up to such good purpose that, long before the
clock struck one, his eyes were gladdened by beholding the summit of
Epsom grand stand on the distant hill-tops.
Leaning himself forward, he whispered in the shell-like ear of _Milky
Way_: "Only one more effort, and we shall have preserved both our
bacons!"
But, alas! he had the mortification to perceive that the legs of _Milky
Way_ were already becoming tremulous from incipient grogginess.
* * * * *
And now, beloved reader, let me respectfully beg you to imagine yourself
on the Epsom Derby Course immediately prior to the grand event. What a
marvellous human farrago! All classes hobnobbing together
higgledy-piggledy; archbishops with acrobats; benchers with bumpkins;
counts with candlestickmakers; dukes with druggists; and so on through
the entire alphabet. Some spectators in carriages; others on _terra
firma_; flags flying; bands blowing; innumerable refreshment tents
rearing their heads proudly into the blue Empyrean; policemen gazing
with smiling countenances on the happy multitudes when not engaged in
running them in.
Now they are conducting the formality of weighing the horses, to see if
they are qualified as competitors for the Derby Gold Cup, and each
horse, as it steps out of the balancing scales and is declared eligible,
commences to prance jubilantly upon the emerald green turf.
(_N.B._-The writer of above realistic description has never been
actually present at any Derby Race, but has done it all entirely from
assiduous cramming of sporting fictions. This is surely deserving of
recognition from a generous public!)
Now follows a period of dismay--for _Milky Way_, the favourite of high
and low, is suddenly discovered to be still the dark horse! The only
person who exhibits gratification is the Duchess Dickinson, who makes
her entrance into the most fashionable betting ring and, accosting a
leading welsher, cries in exulting accents: "I will bet a million to a
monkey against _Milky Way_!"
Even the welsher himself is appalled by the enormity of such a stake and
earnestly counsels the Duchess to substitute a more economical wager,
but she scornfully rejects his well-meant advice, and with a trembling
hand he inscribes the bet in his welching book.
No sooner has he done so than the saddling bell breaks forth into a
joyous chime, and the crowd is convulsed by indescribable emotions.
"Huzza! huzza!" they shout. "Welcome to the missing favourite, and three
cheers for _Milky Way_!"
The Duchess had turned as pale as a witch, for, galloping along the
course, she beholds Mr Bhosh, bereft of his tall hat and covered with
perspiration and dust, on the very steed which she fondly hoped had been
mislaid among the left luggage!