RACING PAR EXCELLENCE.
A VISIT I once paid to Castle Donington had initiated me into many of the
mysteries of racing of which I had hitherto been in profound ignorance.
I had learnt that heavy plungers often deputed minor satellites to bet
according to instructions, and had witnessed “private” trials—which it
was well known were being watched—where ruses were resorted to that would
have impressed the most sceptical by their realism. I had seen a
“favourite” pulled up, and within half a minute a blood-stained
pocket-handkerchief hurriedly smuggled into the rider’s pocket; I had
witnessed a horse backed for thousands go lame without apparent cause a
week before a race, and hobble through the village as if on its way to
the knacker’s, and I marvelled—till I gradually became more
enlightened—at the profound acumen of those in authority who could bring
such invalids to the post in the best of health and spirits.
I also made the acquaintance of numerous shining lights of the Turf, some
that blazed with universally admitted lustre, and some that emitted a
shady, indescribable glimmer apt to mislead the wayfarer.
Amongst the former none held a more honourable position, or was a greater
favourite, than Mr. George Payne. A man of likes and dislikes, he had
apparently taken a fancy to me and often gave me hints that sturdier
recipients would have converted into thousands.
Mr. George Payne, although at this period close upon sixty, was the
centre of every fashionable gathering that met for racing or card
playing; a favourite of the highest in the land, he had come direct from
Norfolk to Nice in company with the chief actor in a notorious drama
enacted many years later, and no man had raised his voice with greater
indignation when, _nolens volens_, he found himself in the very centre of
the unsavoury vortex, “By —, sir! By —, sir!”—an invariable adjunct—“D—
scoundrel!” dominating considerably amid the numerous _pourparlers_ that
ensued.
As a card player his stakes were simply appalling, and it is a well-known
fact that on one occasion he won £30,000 from the late Lord
Londesborough, who immediately afterwards hurried off to be married.
£100 a game was to him a normal stake, and any aspirant attempting to
“cut in” at the table who was not prepared to have an extra hundred on
the game was “By —, sir’d!” _ad infinitum_ for depriving a better man of
the seat.
Opinions on that remarkable meteor—Henry Plantagenet Hastings—who first
came into public notice at the Newmarket Spring Meeting of ’62, will
always differ. By those who knew him intimately he will be remembered as
a weak, amiable, and generous youngster, terribly handicapped by a
colossal rent roll, a splendid pedigree, a generous, impulsive
disposition, and an entire ignorance of the value of money. To the
present generation, who have only heard of his escapades, he will appear
as a reckless, unprincipled reprobate, preferring low company to that of
his equals, incapable of restraining his passions in pursuit of the
object of the moment, and sacrificing anything and anybody for their
attainment. Barely had he left Oxford than he became the target of that
sporting world that pursued him to his grave, and was swindled out of
£13,500 for a “screw” that ended his days in a cab; after which he
settled down to racing as a serious occupation, and had fifty horses in
training; thence (1862) to 1867 he won the Cambridgeshire, the Grand
Prix, the Goodwood Cup, and a host of minor races, besides such a
colossal sum as close upon £80,000 on Lecturer in the Cesarewitch of ’66.
But although the fates had apparently condoned his infringement of the
Tenth Commandment in ’64, Nemesis was even then on his track, and it
would seem that the colt foaled about the very time he was exploiting the
structural merits of Vere Street was to be the humble instrument in the
hands of Providence for the ruin of the wicked Marquis.
It is needless here to repeat the threadbare story that once interested
people of how the most beautiful woman of her day stepped out of a
brougham one fine morning at the Oxford Street entrance to a
linen-draper’s, and emerged from another door in the vicinity of Vere
Street with the Marquis’s boon companion, Fred Granville. Suffice for
our reminiscences, that if all this had not occurred in ’64, there would
probably have been no “Hermit’s year” in ’67; that Captain Machell would
not have commenced his career by netting £80,000 over the event, and that
poor Hastings would never have lost and paid the 103,000 sovereigns he
did. One cannot follow the ups and downs of this unhappy sport of
Fortune without comparing the cheers that everywhere greeted him up to
’67 with the execrations with which he was assailed by the same rabble at
Epsom the following year, and all because one of the most generous of
golden calves had been tricked and swindled out of a colossal fortune in
less than six years, and had met every obligation till plucked of his
last feather.
Nor can one forget that the yelpings of his indignant judges (!) were
mingled with the hacking cough that carried him to his grave five months
later; yet nobody who saw him drive off the course would have imagined
that the incident had affected him in the least. “I did not show it, did
I?” he remarked to an intimate friend almost from his death-bed; “but it
fairly broke my heart,” and so Henry Plantagenet Hastings was gathered to
his fathers at the early age of twenty-six, and almost before the howls
of the mob had ceased to ring in one’s ears.
Whilst on the fascinating but occult science of racing, the licence
invariably accorded by an indulgent public will not it is hoped be here
withheld if one jumps for a moment into the early seventies, an era,
alas! as far removed from the present generation as the long-ago sixties.
With railway facilities very different from those of to-day, it was the
custom of “bloods” to make a week of it at Newmarket during the great
meetings, and so it came to pass that a distinctly representative party
took up their quarters at the residence of Mr. Postans, the courteous
postmaster at Mill Hill, for the Two Thousand festival of ’72.
In those long-ago days class distinctions were religiously observed even
in such trifles, and whilst the “second chop” resorted to the “White
Hart” and other comfortable hostelries, the upper crust engaged houses at
fabulous prices, to the advantage of owner and tenant.
The existence was as regular as it was exciting, the racing being
followed by an excellent dinner and a stroll about nine to “The Rooms.”
It was on the night before the big race that Forbes-Bentley—a lucky dog
who owned a number of horses, and who had recently been left a fortune of
£140,000 conditional on his adding a second barrel to his name—suggested
to a sportsman at dinner that to avoid notice he should put some money on
for him on Prince Charlie for the Two Thousand.
Beginning his racing career in a pure love of the sport, he eventually
developed into a colossal punter, and discovered—it is feared too
late—that the game is not a paying one. “Tommy,” he whispered to his
next-door neighbour over their cigars, “I want a monkey on Prince
Charlie; will you, like a good fellow, put it on for me with as little
publicity as possible?”
Prince Charlie during the past twenty-four hours had been a little shaky
in the betting, and from being firm at 2 to 1, 5 to 2 was at the moment
being laid, and was to be had to any amount.
Entering the Rooms about midnight the air resounded with “5 to 2
against,” as, cautiously approaching the then leviathan of the Turf,
Tommy inquired: “What price Prince Charlie?” “I’ll lay you 1000 to 400,
Captain,” was the reply, and the bet being duly booked, he continued:
“And now you can have 3 monkeys to 1 if you like.” “Put it down,”
replied Tommy, who although exceeding his commission decided that what
was good enough for Forbes-Bentley was good enough for him.
But barely had he left the bookie when up came T. V. Morgan, who had a
score of horses with Joe Dawson, and inquired what he had been doing.
“Your horse is not going well in the betting, old man. I’ve just taken 3
monkeys to 1,” was the reply.
“My —, there must be something wrong!” he gasped. “I’ll go at once to
Joe,” and without waiting a moment, he disappeared on his midnight
mission.
Knocking up Joe Dawson, who had long retired to rest, the two proceeded
to the stable, where it was found that the first favourite’s near fore
leg was inflamed, with every indication of a swelling.
“By —, Morgan!” exclaimed the trainer, “this is d— serious; the horse has
been got at, and may be again; we mustn’t stir from here for the
remainder of the night.” And so the two kept vigil alternately till the
saddling bell rang next afternoon. The head stable lad meanwhile and
certain helpers were not admitted into the stable, and peremptorily
discharged in the morning, and bonnie Prince Charlie won the Two Thousand
fairly easily. But during the race there was a critical moment as the
horses entered the Dip and his jockey was seen to move in the saddle. “A
thousand to a carrot against Prince Charlie!” was now shouted by a
hundred stentorian voices, but the shouts were happily short-lived, as
the grand old roarer shot out of the crowd and won with apparent ease.
Joe Dawson and his colleague Morgan meanwhile were inundated with
congratulations, and when Joe recounted the marvellous escape the good
old horse had had, the congratulations were not unaccompanied by fervent
hopes that the delinquents might yet be discovered and lynched.
On the authority of the late Joe Dawson it may be accepted that what
occurred was of the simplest but most effective nature, and comes briefly
to this: “That the fittest horse if gently tapped with a piece of wood on
the back sinew will become dead lame, and leave no trace of the
nobbling.”
But what led to the discovery appears more marvellous. If Forbes-Bentley
had not commissioned Tommy to get his money on, and if Morgan had not
casually asked what he was doing, the fact of Prince Charlie’s
unpopularity might never have been brought home to the former; Joe Dawson
might have continued in his undisturbed slumber, and Prince Charlie at
daylight would have been found to be hopelessly lame.
It was the year in which Aventuriere ran for the Oaks that George Payne
told me that he thought she had a chance of winning, and a hint of the
kind meaning a lot from such a man as Mr. Payne, I decided to invest £15
in the hopes of landing £500. Meeting my friend after the race, I
expressed my fear that the mare had not fulfilled his expectations.
“Wait till you’ve seen her over a long distance,” was the encouraging
reply. “Don’t repeat what I’m saying, but when the weights are out for
the Cesarewitch get your money back if she carries anything less than
7st.”
Laying this monition to heart, I decided to trust her for a big stake,
but waiting, alas! to see how Alec Taylor’s lot would be quoted before
acting on the hint, I proceeded to Newmarket with a sporting team.
“Come and dine with me to-night,” suggested Fred Gretton, “if you don’t
mind meeting Swindells; you know what he is, but he’s d— amusing.”
Swindells was the owner of the first favourite, The Truth gelding, a
patched-up old crock that had been pulled at every small meeting for
months, and rewarded his enterprising owner by being given a nice light
weight for the Cesarewitch.
“I hope you’re both on my ’orse for to-morrow,” inquired the genial
Swindells. And I explained I had determined to back Aventuriere.
“What’s she got on?” asked Swindells. “What, 6st. 12lb.? D— me if any —
three-year-old has a chance against my ’orse.”
It was then that I faltered, and, impressed with the speaker’s cuteness,
decided to go against my original intention, and backing The Truth
gelding, had the mortification next day of seeing Aventuriere win by a
neck with little Glover up.
“Well, got home, I hope?” inquired Mr. Payne after the race, and when I
told the truth, he added: “Never ask me for a tip again.”
It was thus that I lost the biggest chance of my life.
But it was before the above blow had descended that Mr. Swindells was at
his best, and during the dinner that we have referred to told story after
story which, however creditable to his resourceful genius, would by many
be considered “fishy.”
“Ah, the Chester Cup was the race for getting money on in those days,”
remarked the genial Swindells. “I once ’ad a crock called Lymington; ah,
a rare useful one, too. At the October Meeting I put ’im in for an
over-night race, the stable lad up, with orders to pull him up sharp soon
after the start, jump off and wait. The ’orse was dead lame, of course,
and for why? The lad ’ad slipped a bit of ’ard stuff into his frog.
“‘Bad case; breakdown,’ everyone said, so we took ’im back to the stables
in a van. First the local vet. saw him, and then a big pot from London,
and we humbugged ’em both. Not long after I entered ’im for the Chester
Cup, but told everybody my d— fool of a clerk had made a bloomer of it,
as the ’orse could never be trained, and so when the weights came out he
was chucked in at nix. My eyes! what a cop! and, my Gawd, didn’t he win!
Oh, no; only as far as from ’ere to nowhere!”
At Doncaster, too, the hospitalities were even of a more lavish style,
and all the principal owners gave dinner parties nightly to their various
friends.
The name of Sir Robert Peel recalls many episodes in the career of that
most blustering baronet.
Beginning as an attaché at Berne, the first performance that brought him
into prominence was an outburst of temper at a local Kursaal, when,
seizing the rake, he belaboured an innocent croupier as the cause of his
run of bad luck.
The Foreign Office, deeming change of air desirable, we next hear of him
following the noble sport of racing, when I had the distinction of coming
within the sphere of his amiable influence. It was in ’69 that I found
myself on one occasion travelling to Newmarket in the same compartment as
Lord Rosslyn and Sir Robert Peel; in the same train was Lord Rosebery,
making his début as an owner of horses, and still unknown to fame as the
most brilliant of orators and one of the best Foreign Secretaries England
has ever had.
“What kind of fellow is young Rosebery?” inquired Lord Rosslyn; to which
the most opinionated of men replied:
“He looks a fool, but I’m told he’s a bigger one than he looks.”
And this was the verdict of a man whose claims to celebrity were based on
being the son of a brilliant father, on one who, in addition to a most
successful racing career, is universally admired as a sound politician, a
genial friend, and the most versatile of living public men.
It was about the same period that the fates again destined me to be
within measurable distance of the over-bearing baronet, when young Webb,
the jockey, had lost a race through no fault of riding. As he was fuming
and abusing the unhappy youth, Mr. George Payne, who was present,
protested against the unjust charge, adding that although he had lost
considerably by the race, he in no way blamed Webb, who had carried out
his instructions implicitly.
It was at this point one of the most amiable of men interfered, and
laying his hand on George Payne’s arm, said: “My dear George, it will
take three or four more crosses to get the cotton out of the Peel
family.”
Of a commanding presence, and faultlessly attired in heavy satin cravat
and large-brimmed hat, Sir Robert gave the impression of patrician down
to the heels; it was only—as Sir Joseph Hawley suggested—when the
crustation was tampered with that the plating gave indications of alloy.
Peel was an inveterate gambler, and an admittedly fine whist player, and
even so late as the early eighties might be seen daily at the Turf Club
at the 2 and 10 table, and a pony on the rub. It was in this most select
of establishments that a fracas occurred between this most irascible of
baronets and a noble marquis (still living), when the pot called the
kettle black. It ended in both members being suspended, then mutually
apologising, and eventually being restored to the privileges of the fold.
A bad loser, he was deficient in one quality that makes a successful
gambler, and so remained a failure, despite all the advantages that
political interest gave him.
Of a different type was Sir Joseph Hawley; succeeding to a huge fortune
before he was out of his teens, he went through the usual finishing
school of those days, and served a few months in the 9th Lancers, after
which he devoted his attention to yachting and visiting the various
Mediterranean ports in the vain search of the pursuit for which nature
had intended him.
It was at Corfu, then occupied by a small British garrison, that he had a
unique experience. Entering upon one occasion the chief bakery of the
island, he sought enlightenment on the process by which the bread was
kneaded. Around a vast room, surrounded by a shelf, sat some half-dozen
swarthy naked natives, whilst here and there lumps of dough were arranged
in piles; on the floor stood two or three youths, whilst suspended from
the ceiling dangled various ropes, which the respective squatters
clutched firmly in their hands. At a given signal, away they flew,
whilst the urchins deftly turned the dough, and then, with a flop, down
came the naked natives, with eyes starting out of their heads, only again
to fly into space, whilst their next resting-place was being duly
adjusted.
No fear of indigestion where such perfect kneading was in force; indeed,
the bread of Corfu bore an excellent reputation, and the island was
considered one of the most popular of Foreign Stations.
It would be absurd to recount the numerous victories of the “cherry and
black” colours, although the unique experience of Blue Gown being
disqualified at Doncaster for carrying “over weight” in the Champagne
Stakes may come as a surprise to many.
Scotland was represented on the Turf in the sixties by two shining lights
of diametrically different types, the patrician Earl of Glasgow and the
plebeian James Merry (of Glasgow), and whilst the former, during his
fifty years, only once won a classic race—the Two Thousand—the latter
swept the boards of everything over and over again.
Lord Glasgow was not a lovable man; bluff to a degree, and sensitive as
lyddite, the brine that he imbibed in his youth never appears to have
left him, for his lordship was in the Navy when keel hauling was in
vogue, and the sixties found him as foul-mouthed, irritable, and
cross-grained as any British tar ought to be.
Suffice that in those hard-drinking, hard-swearing days, no head was
harder, no répertoire more complete than that of this belted Earl (why
belted?), who, with all his faults, was a grand landmark of what a
patrician of the old days was, as surrounded by his boon companions,
General Peel, George Payne, Lord Derby, and Henry Greville, the magnums
of claret flowed in the historical bay-window at White’s. But this was
before membership was “invited” by advertisement.
James Merry, on the other hand, was a typical semi-educated Scot, game to
the backbone, but not up to the standard then required in a gentleman.
He came, indeed, before his time; had he lived to-day, a baronetcy, or
certainly the Victorian Order, would have been his reward.
It has been the lot of few men to own such horses as Thormanby, Dundee,
Scottish Chief, MacGregor, Sunshine, Doncaster, and Marie Stuart, and
despite the fact that no suspicion ever rested on James Merry’s fair
name, it is an open secret that when MacGregor was backed for more money
than any Derby favourite before or since, the Ring told him, “If he wins
we are broke”—and he did not win.
Devout Presbyterian though he was, he succumbed, alas, on one occasion,
to French blandishments, and ran a horse on the Sawbath. Summoned by the
“Elders” of Falkirk to explain the terrible lapse, he freely admitted his
sin, and only obtained absolution by presenting the entire siller to the
Kirk.
But no reference—however superficial—to the Turf in the sixties would be
complete without one word of homage to the great Englishman who did so
much for the honour of old England both in sport and politics. Not that
his greatest admirer can place Lord Palmerston in the front rank either
as a diplomatist or an owner of racehorses, though none can deny him the
marvellous combination of attributes that endeared him to his countrymen,
whether in office or opposition, as when crying “hands off” when his
prerogative as Prime Minister was being tampered with; or when leaving a
debate to come out and shake hands with his trainer; or when at
Tattersall’s watching the fluctuations in the betting over his hot
favourite, Mainstone, for the Derby; or when twitting his political
opponent (Lord Derby), whom he had just replaced as Prime Minister; or,
again, whilst watching Tom Spring or John Gully punching in the ring long
before any of us were thought of. Ah, there was a man; an Englishman
without guile, and of a type well nigh extinct!
Lord Palmerston never attained pre-eminence on the Turf, and when
Mainstone—as was suspected—was tampered with before the big race, and
when, on a later occasion, Baldwin broke down in his training, he decided
to abandon the sport; what more noble than the letter he wrote to Lord
Naas giving him his favourite to place at the stud? No auctioneering, no
huckstering—but a free gift such as only a great Englishman would have
conceived.
And who that frequented the Curragh meetings in the long-ago sixties has
not admired the noble form of this same Lord Naas (assassinated in ’72 in
the Andaman Islands), accompanied by those stalwart Irishmen, the late
Marquises of Conyngham and Drogheda?
England must indeed “wake up”—to quote a phrase as old as the hills—if
such records are to be maintained, and seek—perhaps in vain—for other
giants such as these mighty dead, if we are to be what we were in sport
and politics amongst the nations of the earth.
For like the ripples on a placid lake before some great convulsion of
nature, a Cromwell is succeeded by a Charles, and the Palmerstons make
way for less sturdy clay, and then the great upheaval comes, which ends
in chaos, or the prosperity that is associated with “a great calm.”
Whether these momentous events will occur, simultaneously with the
establishment of a Duma, and a great penny daily in Jerusalem, and the
abandonment of historical English and Scottish seats for castles on the
Rhine, it would require a modern Jeremiah to foretell, but the pendulum
is oscillating ominously, with a throb that is not to be mistaken.
Lord Falmouth, whom no earwig ever ventured to associate with a fishy
act, holds the proud distinction of never having backed his opinion in
his life, if we except the threadbare tale that every biographer sets out
as if it were not known to everybody, of how he once bet sixpence, and
paid it in a coin surrounded by diamonds.
With this attribute universally known, it is perhaps not difficult to
explain the immunity he obtained from innuendo when his horse Kingcraft
won the Derby in the memorable year that the Ring “approached” James
Merry, despite the fact that he only ran third to MacGregor in the Two
Thousand.
That Lord Falmouth was a successful horse-owner may be accepted by the
£300,000 he undoubtedly won in stakes during the twenty years of his
career; that no one begrudged it him is shown by the unanimous regret of
the racing public when he practically retired from the Turf, and that
even so “close” a man as Fred Archer, the jockey, should have subscribed
towards a presentation silver shield speaks volumes for his popularity.
Lord Falmouth, like his grand old naval ancestor, is now a matter of
history, and nothing remains but the two guns outside the family town
house in St. James’s Square to remind the passer-by of two great men, who
in their respective spheres were _sans peur et sans reproche_.
To Fred Archer, as a phenomenon of a later period, who was latterly Lord
Falmouth’s jockey, it is out of the sphere of these annals of the sixties
to refer, but seeing him as I often have over his usual breakfast of hot
castor-oil, black coffee, and a slice of toast, it seems incredible that
he should have lived even to his thirtieth year.
Constantly “wasting” to try and attain 8st. 7lb. his mind and body soon
became a wreck, and then the sad end came by his own hand with which we
are all familiar.
Bob Hope-Johnstone and his brother David (“Wee Davy”) were two as fine
specimens of the genus man as can well be conceived; but like
Napoleon—who, according to experts, ought to have died at Waterloo—Bob
outlived the glory of his youth, and became a morose, cantankerous
wretch, who spent half his time at the hostelry now known as Challis’s,
which in the sixties was the resort of every jockey—straight or
crooked—that held a licence from the Jockey Club.
Another shining light about this period was Prince Soltykoff, whose wife
was one of the handsomest women in England.
It was after her death that he came into prominence as an admirer of
beautiful women in general, and of little Graham of the Opera Comique in
particular, and—later on—of goodness knows how many more. Many a time
have I seen him at Mutton’s at Brighton, loaded with paper bags full of
every indigestible delight, which the imperious little woman beside him
continued unmercifully to add to.
Lord Glasgow, who was distinguished in the sixties as possessing the
longest string of useless yearlings, was, in addition to other
peculiarities, the most hot-tempered explosive that epoch produced. Kind
of heart in the bluffest of ways, and throwing money about with a lavish
hand, I remember on one occasion finding myself on the railway station at
Edinburgh as his plethoric lordship was purchasing his ticket. Tendering
a £5 note, the clerk requested him to endorse it, which, having been done
with a churlish air, his temper rose to fever pitch when the clerk,
returning it, said, “I didn’t ask you where you were going; I want your
name, man!” A volley of abuse, in which he was a past-master, then
followed, and the abashed official realised that what he had mistaken for
a grazier was the redoubtable Earl of Glasgow.
The sporting critic of the _Morning Post_, who wrote under the name of
“Parvo,” once felt the weight of his indignation for what, after all, was
a fair criticism of the great man’s stud, and when, in ’69, an obituary
article appeared in the _Post_, the incident and the exact wish his
lordship had given expression to were conveyed in flowery symbolism as a
hope “that he might live to water his grave, but not with tears.”
The Earl of Aylesford in the sixties was the owner of Packington Hall,
and a princely income, and it was whilst I was staying with George Graham
(owner of the famous Yardley stud where the great Stirling “stood”) that
a jovial party drove over from Packington. Luncheon as served in those
days was an important item in the programme, and long before the
Packington party began to think of returning more than one had succumbed
to the rivers of champagne that flowed. Bob Villiers (a brother of the
then Earl of Jersey) was one of the first to collapse, and as he
disappeared under the table the kindly host’s anxiety was curbed by a
shout from Joe Aylesford, “Never mind, George, he’s only tried himself a
bit too high.”
A few years later Joe was one of the party, selected in company with
Beetroot (as Lord Alfred Paget was affectionately called) and others, to
accompany the Prince of Wales to India, and it was during his absence
that the troubles that culminated in disaster overtook the popular Earl.
“Don’t go to India, Joe, if you value your domestic happiness,” was the
advice of an old friend, but go he did, and then began the intrigues of a
titled libertine, which ended in strong drinks and the mortgaging of the
ancestral acres.
Amid this genial phalanx no better host was to be found than old Fred
Gretton, and it was apropos of the Cambridgeshire that the following
incident occurred.
Seated round the festive board were some dozen sportsmen, young men from
town and old men from the shires; dear old George Graham (the breeder of
Stirling) and his brother; Duffer Bruce (father of the late Marquis of
Aylesbury), deafer than usual, but shouting the house down; myself, Peter
Wilkinson, and three or four worthies of the farmer class who had come in
the wake of Fred Gretton.
“I should like you to win a large stake,” whispered to me a jolly old
squire who had been my neighbour at dinner.
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” I replied; “the more so as this
is positively the last meeting I am ever likely to be at before going to
Gibraltar.”
“Eh, lad, and why so?” persisted my well-wisher. “I should like you to
win a large stake,” and realising that it was now or never, I boldly
replied: “Look here, Mr. Bowden, if you can put me on to a good thing I
shall be eternally grateful.”
“I suppose you’ve never heard of Playfair?” inquired Mr. Bowden. “He’s
Fred’s horse, and he’s certain to win the Cambridgeshire; he’s only got
6st. 3lb., the acceptances are just out, but, for God’s sake, don’t let
Fred know. Now, lad, do as I tell you; I’ve taken a liking to you.”
It must be admitted I had never heard of Playfair—very few had—but acting
up to the tenets I had learnt during my two years’ intimacy with the late
Hastings, I boldly took 1,000 to 15 within the hour with the leviathan
Steele.
“What are you backing?” inquired Mr. Gretton, who that moment came
hurriedly up, and on being informed by the bookie, he turned to me and
whispered into my ear, “There’s only one man could have told you, and
that’s that d— drunken old blackguard Bowden; but not a word, mind you,
you keep to that 1,000.” And so the kind old man toddled off. Shortly
before the race, at the Bath Hotel, Piccadilly, where he always stayed in
Town, he inquired of the two barmaids if they would like a sovereign each
on his horse; and whilst the foolish virgin expressed a preference for
the coin, the wise virgin elected to be “on,” and after the race received
from the genial punter £35—a sum considerably in excess of the price.
Suffice to say, Playfair won the Cambridgeshire for Mr. Gretton in ’72,
and it is no exaggeration to add that his taking to racing to the extent
he then did suggested the idea—afterwards elaborated—of turning Bass and
Co. into a limited liability company.