ALFRED NEGLECTS THE WARNING OF DON'T TOUCH ME, AND RUES IT.
But, in a lame sort of way, he found justification for the act. He
would not accept the brand; fate and bad luck were to blame, not he.
He took the money with the firm intention of replacing it, and with
the conviction (by what sophistry gained, heaven only knows) that he
would be able to do so; and he gave himself credit for his intention,
as if it were an act performed. With part of the money he had backed
horses to win a heavy stake, but his usual bad luck pursued him; in
his vernacular, one horse was "pulled," another was "scratched" an
hour before the race, and others went wrong in all sorts of ways. But
his heaviest stroke of bad luck, and one which almost maddened him at
the time of its occurrence, was the disqualifying of a horse he had
backed after it had actually won the race. This took place on a
suburban race-course, where probably the finest collection in the
world of blacklegs, thieves, and swindlers may be seen by any one
interested in the species. It may be accepted as a fact, that nearly
every person who goes there, goes with the intention of "getting the
best" of his neighbour, if he can possibly manage it; and Alfred was
not one of the exceptions that proved the rule. His moral
consciousness was as spotted as the morality of those he elbowed.
There were men who backed the favourites, who backed the jockeys'
mounts, who backed the stable (whichever one it might be), who backed
their fancy, who backed the owners, who backed the issue of famous
sires, who backed the prophets' selections, and who laid out their
money in accordance with a system. Many of them had private
information of such-and-such horses, and knew for a certainty that
they must win--some from superior excellence of their own, some
because their opponents were not going to try. Men of straw most of
them; miserable crawlers through the crooked ways of life, striving to
reach the heaven of their hopes by means of any species of roguery;
who will look their friends in the face, and lie deliberately; who
take the name of God in vain a dozen times an hour; whose hands and
tongues are ready at any moment to filch and profane; and in whose
minds the noblest qualities of human nature are but themes for ribald
jest. I who write these words am no purist; I am no more moral than my
neighbours, I daresay; and I love pleasure as well as I love work.
Temptations beset us all, at times, and not one of us is strong enough
always to resist. I, as well as you, have occasion to be sorry, and
would, if I could, live over again some of the time that is past, and
would strive to avoid slipping. I have deceived myself often, and have
given myself credit for things which have resulted from no merit that
I possess. But I do not deceive myself when I say that I have a hearty
contempt for roguery and meanness, and that I have a horror of
blasphemy and the profaning of human and divine things. And, as at no
open gatherings in the wide world can so much roguery and knavery be
seen as at some of these small race-meetings (and in some large ones,
too), I think it a pity that they are encouraged by high authorities,
whose position among the people is almost that of a teacher.
Being at this suburban race-meeting (having obtained the holiday by
shamming illness), Alfred at once set to work backing horses. He had
in his pocket more than twenty pounds, the surplus of the money he had
taken from the iron box, and he had fully made up his mind that a
great stroke of good luck was to come to him on this day, and that he
would go home with a purse filled with others persons' losings. His
plan of operations upon this occasion was a very simple one. He
pursued the "doubling" system--a system which undoubtedly would result
in gain, if it could be carried out without stopping. In the first
race he selected a horse, and backed it for two pounds; the horse did
not win. All the better for the next race, thought Alfred, as he
walked about, and studied on his race-card the string of horses that
were next to compete. In this race he made his selection, and backed
his horse for four pounds. Again the horse came in among the rear
division, and again Alfred lost. He began to look anxious, and
nervously fingered the money in his pocket. Should he leave off, and
be content with his losses? He fortified his faint heart with some
brandy, and walked among the crowd to pick up information. No, he
would go on; the odds were surely in his favour now. He had lost
twice; he _must_ win in the third venture. Up went the black board
with the names of the horses for the third race. Among them was Never
Despair. Acting upon an inspiration, Alfred backed Never Despair for
eight pounds, and obtained the odds of five to one--that is, if Never
Despair won, Alfred's gain would be forty pounds. The horse _did_ win.
It was an exciting race between the favourite and Never Despair; and
as the sporting writers said the next morning, Never Despair caught
the favourite in the last stride, and won by a short head. "By----!"
muttered a man by Alfred's side, "Never Despair's won, and I'm done
for!" And, with muttered oaths hanging about his white lips, the loser
looked around, ready to pick a pocket. "Hurrah!" cried Alfred, taking
off his hat and waving it. "Hurrah! Never Despair's won!" But stopped
suddenly, for fear that a mistake might occur, or that there might be
something wrong with the horse, or that the jockey might be found a
pound short in his weight. His first fear was dispelled by the
appearance of the number of Never Despair on the black board. Then
Alfred, trembling with excitement, waited for the magic words which
would proclaim that the jockey had passed his ordeal in safety, and
that the race was really and truly won by the horse he had backed. The
three or four minutes that intervened seemed to be three or four
hours, and Alfred fretted and fumed, and dug his nails into his hands.
At length came the magic cry from the saddling paddock, "All right!"
"All right! All right!" screamed Alfred, and the recognised scouts
took up the cry, passing it from list to list. Off scampered Alfred to
get his forty pounds, and came away radiant, with eight five-pound
notes and his own deposited stake of eight pounds clenched in his
fist. "How much have I won?" he thought. On the first and second races
he had lost six pounds. Six from forty, thirty-four. That was good
thirty-four pounds were not a bad day's work. "I knew luck would
turn," said Alfred exultantly. "I knew luck would turn! Let me see.
Thirty-four pounds a day--how much is that a year?" And began to
reckon up his thousands, and look a long way ahead. He had now
in his pocket nearly sixty pounds. He gave a shilling to an old gipsy
woman, who detained him a few moments by telling him that a beautiful
young lady with brown eyes was thinking of him at that moment, "Of
course she is," exclaimed Alfred merrily, breaking away from the
fortune-teller with a laugh. "I could have told you that, mother!" He
was in the highest of spirits. "What shall I buy for Lizzie?" he
thought. "I'll buy her a watch. And Lil, too, I mustn't forget her. I
want some new clothes myself. I'll buy that diamond ring young
Shrewboy at the office wants to sell. He only asks twelve pounds for
it, and it just fits my little finger. It sparkles like anything!
There's that money, too, I borrowed from the box: I must put it back."
If he had been wise, he would not have indulged in these extravagant
anticipations; he would have been content with his winnings. But who
ever knew a wise gamester? He went to the best drinking-bar on the
race-course, and treated himself to a bottle of champagne; and said to
himself, as he drank it, that now his luck was in, and he would be a
fool not to back it. He might go home that afternoon with two or three
hundred pounds in his pocket, if he had a spark of courage in him.
Nothing venture, nothing have. How had the leviathans of the ring made
their money? First by luck, then by pluck. Why shouldn't he be one of
them? Why should he not buy his own trap, have private boxes at the
music-halls, wear diamond rings and diamond pins, and an Ulster coat
down to his heels? Some of them had country houses and race-horses of
their own, and ate and drink of the best; as for champagne, they might
swim in it. The iron was hot; now was the time to strike it. Flushed
and elated, he walked into the ring. The names of the horses for the
fourth race were being chalked on the black board. By a strange chance
one was named Don't Touch Me. There was nothing very singular in this
appellation; as a matter of fact you will find in the sporting papers
of to-day a list of outlawed horses, among which you will see such
names as Bird of Prey, Phryne, Roll Call, I Must Not Touch It, and
others as significant. Now this horse, that Alfred was disposed to
back directly he saw that, it was among the runners, carried its own
recommendation with it. Don't Touch Me was a sufficiently fair warning
for any horse to carry, never mind how lightly it was weighted; but
Alfred fancied it as it took its preliminary canter. "It will walk
in," he heard some one say, "and it belongs to So-and-so," mentioning
the name of one of the "knowing ones" of the turf. How these persons
earn the distinctive title of the "knowing ones" there is no necessity
here to inquire; it can scarcely be by the exercise of the cardinal
virtues, which pagans declared to be justice, prudence, temperance,
and fortitude, although the second-named, prudence, bears a wide and
various meaning, and they might lay claim to it in the interests of
self. However it was, there stood Don't Touch Me on the black board,
and there before his eyes cantered Don't Touch Me on the turf, with a
celebrated jockey on its back. "I'll back it for every shilling in my
pocket," thought Alfred, "and make a good haul." But he would make
sure that he was right. How? By one of those foolish superstitions
which gamblers believe in. He wrote the names of the eleven runners on
eleven pieces of paper, folded them separately, and shook them
together in his pocket. "Now," he said, "if I draw Don't Touch Me,
that will settle it." He put in his hand, and drew one of the folded
pieces of paper. Opening it he read Don't Touch Me, and that settled
it. "It's the favourite," he said, almost aloud, in his excitement, as
he consulted the lists, and saw that Don't Touch Me was quoted at
three to one; "it's the favourite, and it's sure to win!" Down went
his money. Not all with one man. One man might not be able to pay him
so large a sum when the race was over. So he invested twenty pounds
with one, ten with another, five with another, until he had put all he
had upon Don't Touch Me. He stood altogether to win about a hundred
and seventy pounds. He selected "safe men" to bet with. In some lists,
kept by men who looked remarkably like costermongers with a polish on,
the odds against Don't Touch Me were quoted at four, five, and even
six to one; but Alfred knew that these worthies were welchers, and not
all their seductive offers, not all their flattering "Now then,
captain, what d'ye want to back?--any odds on outsiders!--give it a
name, captain--what'll you put a fiver on?" could tempt him. He knew
the ropes better than that; he knew that these capitalists, whose
stock-in-trade consisted of a bit of chalk, a stool, a printed
placard, and a lead pencil, were swindlers, who were allowed to rob
with the policeman looking on. Truly, if Justice is blind, the law
that is supposed to lead to it has a cast in its eye. Having made his
great venture, Alfred went to look at the horse that carried it. It
was a noble-looking animal, in splendid condition, fit to run for a
man's life. Just behind it, making its way leisurely to the
starting-post, was a horse named the Cunning One. Alfred laughed as he
noted the difference between the two horses. He was in the enclosure
where the swells were, having, after his winnings on Never Despair,
paid for that privilege; and as he laughed now, he heard, "I'll take a
thousand to thirty." "I'll give it to you," was the answer of a
bookmaker; "a thousand to thirty against the Cunning One!" Turning,
Alfred saw the man who had taken the bet, a tall, thin, languid swell,
who drawled his words out as if speaking were a labour. A thick
moustache covered his lips, or something might have been seen in the
expression on them that would have given the lie to his apparently
unconcerned and drawling manner. "There's thirty pounds clean thrown
away," thought Alfred, with a look of contempt at the languid swell;
"a nice fly chap he is to back such a horse as the Cunning One. It's
only fit for a scavenger's cart." Away went the horses to the
starting-post; there was a difficulty in getting a fair start, each
jockey trying to "jockey" the others. Full twenty minutes elapsed, the
while a very Babel of sound, created by the hoarse strong voices of
the betting men, kept the fever of excitement to boiling-point. Again
and again the cry "They're off!" was raised, and again and again came
the mild addendum, "No; another false start." During this time Alfred
heard nothing, saw nothing but the horses; he had staked his all upon
Don't Touch Me, and it was upon that horse of all of them that he
fixed his attention. The jockey's colours were pink; those of the
jockey of the Cunning One were saffron. Alfred noticed that both these
horses were kept comparatively cool and quiet by their riders while
the false starts were being made. This was all in Alfred's favour, and
he remarked it with satisfaction, and said, "It's all right, it's all
right! Don't Touch Me is sure of the race." But his face was pale with
suffering, notwithstanding. How he wished it was all over! "I won't
put another shilling on," he said. "When the race is over, I'll go
straight home." At length the horses were coming together, and a
straight line of variegated colour was seen. "It will be a start this
time," said some one, and the next moment the flag dropped again, and,
"They're off! They're off!" burst from a thousand throats. Before the
horses had gone a hundred yards Alfred saw the pink jacket of Don't
Touch Me and the saffron jacket of the Cunning One in the rear. "All
the better," he thought; for it was a two-mile race, and it was good
policy to save the wind of the horses that were intended to win until
the final struggle. On they came, rushing like the wind past the grand
stand, and although no great distance separated them, saffron and pink
were the absolute last. The race was being run at a great pace. Alfred
was ablaze with excitement. The horses were lost for a few moments
behind a great clump of bush on the other side of the course, and when
they reappeared the aspect of affairs was changed. The horse that had
made the running had dropped behind, and one or two others also were
at the tails of Don't Touch Me and the Cunning One. A mile and a
quarter of the race was run, and these two horses were held in with
wrists of steel, while the riders sat as if they grew out of their
saddles. Now they are coming into the straight run home. "A monkey to
a pony on pink and saffron!" shouts a bookmaker; "a monkey to a pony,
first past the post!" He is right in his judgment. The final struggle
is not yet come, but slight efforts on the part of the jockeys enable
Don't Touch Me and the Cunning One to thread through their horses and
come to the front. Alfred clenches his teeth, and his fingers work
into his palms, and his lips twitch convulsively. Nearer and nearer
they come, increasing in every stride the distance between themselves
and their competitors. Within five hundred yards from the winning
post, they are neck and neck. "Pink wins! Saffron wins! Saffron's
beat! Pink's done!" These words are yelled out frantically, and Alfred
suffers a martyrdom. Suddenly the jockey of Don't Touch Me touches his
horse slightly with his spur, and the noble creature bounds to the
front, gaining a full half-length on the Cunning One. But the Cunning
One's jockey raises his whip, and recovers his lost ground. Then
ensues a grand struggle, every foot of ground being contested. They
might be struggling for dear life, or for something dearer. Alfred
follows them with his wild eyes. They pass like a flash of lightning,
so close together that he does not know whether he has won or lost.
His agony is increased by the conflicting cries, "The Cunning One
wins! Don't Touch Me wins!" Which is right? A calm voice says, "I'll
bet fifty to one that pink came in first;" and the speaker receives a
swift grateful look from Alfred. What an age it seems before the black
board is hoisted that proclaims the winner! Here it is at last.
Hurrah! hurrah! The numbers proclaim Don't Touch Me first; the Cunning
One second. Alfred gives a great sigh of relief; his heart was almost
bursting; he wipes his forehead, and looks round with a triumphant
air. The horse he backed has won the race, and he wins a hundred and
seventy pounds. He sees the man from whom he has to receive the
largest stake, and he walks towards him in an apparently unconcerned
manner. The man is studying his book with a serious air; he has a
bulbous face, and every knob on it is aflame, so that it looks like a
mountain dotted with signal fires. Many of the people are eagerly
canvassing the race; some are radiant, some are despairing. Here is
one man tearing betting-tickets with his teeth, and flinging the
pieces away savagely. Here is another, shouting exultantly to an
acquaintance, "Nipped him this time, Jo! I put a tenner on!" Here is
another, scowling at every face that meets his gaze. Here is one who
staggers like a drunken man, but who nevertheless has not tasted
liquor this day. Alfred has no eye for any of these; despair, joy,
exultation, remorse, surge around him, and he does not heed them. He
thinks of himself only, and burns with impatience to hear the magic
cry "All right!" so that he may claim his winnings. Five minutes pass,
and no signal comes from the saddling paddock that it is all right.
What can be the meaning of the delay? Another minute, and another and
another pass----and then comes a cry from the paddock, "Don't pay! An
objection!" The scouts take up the cry, and it is all over the field
in an instant. "Don't pay!" "Don't pay!" rings from one end to
another; the bookmakers shut their books, and look impenetrable; the
excited backers of Don't Touch Me present their tickets for payment to
the keepers of the list outside the ring, and all the satisfaction
they get is "Don't you hear? There's an objection." The curses, the
oaths, are dreadful to hear. Alfred is dazed for a moment. It is not
possible that the cup can be dashed from his lips! He also staggers
like a drunken man, and a sickening feeling comes upon him. "What's
the objection?" he asks of a bookmaker, in a tone that sounds strange
in his own ears. His lips are white, his limbs are trembling, his
heart sinks within him. "Don't Touch Me won the such-and-such Cup a
month ago," is the answer; "incurred a penalty of five pounds, and did
not carry it. The stewards are settling the dispute now. We shall know
in a few minutes, but Don't Touch Me is sure to be disqualified, and
the Cunning One will get the race." The feeling that is upon Alfred is
like the fear that comes to some men whose lives have been ill spent,
and who have not many minutes to live. He walks about, and hears
vaguely the indignant comments of the backers of Don't Touch Me, and
the hopeful anticipations of the backers of the Cunning One. What is
one man's meat is another man's poison. A partisan of Don't Touch Me
is especially noisy. "Strike me blind," he cries, "if it isn't a
plant! The owner didn't back the horse for a shilling. He stands in
with the owner of the Cunning One; and if the Cunning One gets the
race, as he's sure to, they'll divide four thousand between them." How
the objection is settled is not known until after the next race is
run, and then a notice is stuck up that Don't Touch Me is
disqualified, and that the race is awarded to the Cunning one. Thus
Don't Touch Me justifies the warning that lies in his name, and thus
Alfred's castle once more crumbles into dust, and he is robbed of his
money. "What a fool I was," he groans, "not to have been content with
my winnings on Never Despair! What an idiot to back a horse with such
a name!" He sees the warning now, and, almost blind with despair,
stumbles against people, and is pushed aside roughly. But he himself
is not to blame, not he. Fate is against him; ill-luck follows him.
Who could have foreseen such a calamity as this? If it had not been
for this piece of deliberate villany--for so he settled in his mind
that it was--he would have been able to make reparation for his fault,
and to be kind to those he loved. "I did it all for them," he groans.
The pieces of paper with the names of the horses written upon them are
still in his pocket. He puts in his hand, and draws--the Cunning One!
"If I hadn't been so hasty!" he thinks. "I oughtn't to have settled it
the first draw. If I had only tried a second time! I could have got a
thousand pounds to thirty, as that swell did. I should have had two
thousand pounds in my pocket this minute! And I could have done so
much good with the money--for Lil, and Lizzie, and all of us! Fool
that I was! Fool that I was!" And so staggers away, and in these
miserable repinings passes the day and the night that follow.