The idea and the name for it were the invention of the ingenious Piggott. I
am his first initiate, and with the zeal of the neophyte I am endeavouring
to make his discovery more widely known. The game, which is healthy and
invigorating, can be carried on in any of the remoter suburbs, where the
train-service is not too frequent. All that is required is a fairly long
and fairly straight piece of road, terminating in a railway-station, and a
sufficiency of City men of suitable age and rotundity.
The scheme is based on the Herd instinct--on the tendency of most creatures
to follow their leader. For example, if you are walking down to your early
train, with plenty of time to spare as you suppose, and you observe the man
in front of you looking at his watch and suddenly quickening his steps,
first to a smart walk, then to a brisk jog-trot, it is not in human nature,
however you may trust your own watch, not to follow suit. This is precisely
what Piggott led me to do one morning about six weeks back.
When, on reaching the station ten minutes too early, I remonstrated with
him, he apologised.
"I am sorry," he said; "I didn't know you were behind me. I was really
pace-making for 'Flyaway'--there, over there." And Piggott pointed to a
stoutish man with iron-grey whiskers mopping his forehead and the inside of
his hat, and looking incredulously at the booking-hall clock.
"But that is Mr. Bludyer, senior partner in Bludyer, Spinnaway & Jevons," I
said.
"It may be," replied Piggott. "But I call him Flyaway. I find it more
convenient to have a stable-name for each of my racers." And he proceeded
to expound his invention to me.
Like so many great inventors he had stumbled upon the idea by chance one
morning when his watch happened to be wrong; but he had developed the
inspiration with consummate art and skill. It became his diversion, by
means of the pantomime that had so successfully deceived me--by
dramatically shooting out his wrist, consulting his watch, instantly
stepping out and presently breaking into a run--to induce any gentleman
behind him who had reached an age when the fear of missing trains has
become an obsession to accelerate his progress.
"It is amazing," he said, "how many knots you can get out of the veriest
old tubs. This morning, for instance, Flyaway has taken only a little over
six minutes to cover seven furlongs. That's the best I have got out of him
so far, but I hope to do better with some of the others."
"You keep more than one in training?" I questioned.
"Several. If you like I will hand some over to you. Or, better still," he
added, "you might prefer to start a stable of your own. That would
introduce an element of competition. What about it?"
I accepted with alacrity. The very next day I made a start, and within a
week I had a team of my own in training. The walk to the station, which
formerly had been the blackest hour of the twenty-four, I now looked
forward to with the liveliest impatience. Every morning saw me early on the
road, ready to loiter until I found in my wake some merchant sedately
making his way stationwards to whom I could set the pace. I always took
care, however, not to race the same one too frequently or at too regular
intervals, and I take occasion to impress this caution on beginners.
In the train on the way to the City Piggott and I would compare notes,
carefully recording distances and times, and scoring points in my favour or
his. It would have been better perhaps had we contented ourselves with this
modest programme. Others will take warning from what befell. But with the
ambition of inexperience I suggested we should race two competitors one
against the other, and Piggott let himself be overpersuaded.
I entered my "Speedwell," a prominent stockjobber. Handicapped by the frame
of a _Falstaff_, he happily harbours within his girth a susceptibility to
panic, which, when appropriately stimulated, more than compensates for his
excess of bulk. The distance fixed was from the Green Man to the station, a
five-furlong scamper; the start to be by mutual consent.
Immediately on our interchange of signals I got my nominee in motion. This
is one of Speedwell's best points: he responds instantly to the least sign,
to the slightest touch of the spur, so to speak. Another is staying power.
Before we had gone fifty yards I had got him into an ungainly amble, which
he can keep up indefinitely. Though never rapid, it devours the ground.
Piggott was not so lucky. At the last minute he substituted for the more
reliable Flyaway his Tiny Tim, a dapper little solicitor, not more than
sixty, who to the timorousness of the hare unites some of her speed. In
fact, in his excess of terror he sometimes runs himself to a standstill
before the completion of the course. He suffers, moreover, from short sight
and in consequence is a notoriously bad starter. On the morning in question
he failed for several minutes to observe Piggott's pantomime, and Speedwell
had almost traversed half the distance while Tiny Tim still lingered in the
vicinity of the starting post. Only by the most exaggerated gestures did
Piggott get him off. Once going, however, he took the bit in his teeth and
went like the wind. Soon I caught the pit-pat of his footfall approaching.
I pulled Speedwell together for a supreme effort. But there were still two
hundred yards to cover as his rival drew abreast. A terrific race ensued.
Scared at the spectacle of the other's alarm, each redoubled his exertions.
Neck and neck they ran. Could Tiny Tim last? Had he shot his bolt? Could
Speedwell wear him down?
Unfortunately the question was never settled. As they raced they overtook a
group of business men, youngsters of forty or so, untried colts that had
never yet been run by Piggott or me. These suddenly took fright and bolted.
Inextricably mingled with our pair the whole lot stampeded like a herd of
mustangs. The station approach scintillated with the flashing of spats as
the Field breasted the rise. It was a grand sight, though so many fouls
occurred that it was obvious the race was off. But things became serious
when the entire crowd attempted to pass simultaneously through the
booking-hall doors. Speedwell sprained a pastern and Tiny Tim sustained a
severe kick on the fetlock. Both will require a fortnight's rest before
they can be raced again.
This will be a warning to us and to others too, I hope. Still, it will not
deter us from racing in the future. Nor should it deter others, for the
sport is a glorious one and I hope it may become universal in the outer
suburbs. Piggott and I will be only too glad to give advice or any other
assistance that lies in our power to those who contemplate starting local
clubs in and around London.
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[Illustration: _Old Dame_ (_to visitor who has been condoling with her on a
recent misfortune_). "OCH, I'M GEY ILL. I'VE BEEN CRYIN' SIN' FOWER THIS
MORNIN', AN' I'M JUST GAUN TAE START AGEN AS SOON'S I'VE SIPPIT THIS BICKER
O' PARRITCH."]
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