THE ONLY "RACER" I EVER OWNED--SAM LINTON, THE DOG-FINDER.
I have been often asked whether I ever owned a racer. In point of
fact, I never did, although I went as near to that honour as any man
who never arrived at it--a racer, too, who afterwards carried its
owner's colours triumphantly past the winning-post.
The reader may have been shocked at the story I told of those poor
ill-brought-up children whose mother was murdered, from the natural
feeling that if pure innocence is not to be found in childhood, where
are we to seek it?
I will indicate the spot in three words--_on the Turf_.
True, you will find fraud, cunning, knavery, and robbery, but you will
find also the most unsophisticated innocence.
I went as a spectator, a lover of sport, and a lover of horses; and
took more delight in it than I ever could in any haunt of fashionable
idleness.
I amused myself by watching the proceedings of the betting-ring, where
there is a good deal more honesty than in many places dignified by the
name of "marts."
But if there was no innocence on the turf, rogues could not live; they
are not cannibals--not, at all events, while they can obtain tenderer
food. And are there not commercial circles also which could not exist
without their equally innocent supporters?
Experience may be a dear school, but its lessons are never forgotten.
A very little should go a long way, and the wisest make it go
farthest. If any one wants a picture of innocence on the turf, let me
give one of my own drawing, taken from nature.
All my life I have loved animals, especially horses and dogs; and all
field sports, especially hunting and racing. But I went on the turf
with as much simplicity as a girl possesses at her first ball, knowing
nothing about public form or the way to calculate odds, to hedge, or
do anything but wonder at the number of fools there were in the world.
I did not know "a thing or two," like the knowing ones who lose all
they possess. Who could believe that men go about philanthropically to
inform the innocent how to "put their money on," while they carefully
avoid putting on their own? Tipsters, in short, were no part of my
racing creed. I was not so ignorant as that. I believed in a good
horse quite as much as Lord Rosebery does, and much more than I
believed in a good rider. But there were even then honest jockeys, as
well as unimpeachable owners. All you can say is, honesty is honesty
everywhere, and you will find a good deal of it on the turf, if you
know where to look for it; and its value is in proportion to its
quantity. The moment you depart a hair's-breadth from its immaculate
principle there is no medium state between that and roguery.
However, be that as it may, I was once the owner of a pedigree
thoroughbred called Dreadnought, which was presented to me when
a colt. Dreadnought's dam Collingwood was by Muley Moloch out of
Barbelle. Dreadnought was good for nothing as a racer, and had broken
down in training. As a castaway he was offered to me, and I gladly
accepted the present.
As he was too young to work, I sent him down to ---- Park, to be kept
till he was fit for use. He was there for a considerable time, and was
then sent back in a neglected and miserable condition.
I rode him for some time, until one day he took me to Richmond Park,
and on going up the hill fell and cut both his knees to pieces and
mine as well. This was a sad mishap, and, of course, I could have no
further confidence in poor Dreadnought, fond of him as I was; so he
was placed under the care of a skilful veterinary surgeon, who gave
him every attention. His bill was by no means heavy, and he brought
him quite round again.
In the course of time he acquired a respectable appearance, although
his broken knees, to say nothing of his "past," prevented his becoming
valuable so far as I was concerned. Certainly I had no expectation of
his ever going on to the turf. How could one believe that any owner
would think of entering him for a race?
One morning my groom came to me and said, "I think, sir, I can find a
purchaser for Dreadnought, if you have no objection to selling him;
he's a gentleman, sir, who would take great care of him and give him a
good home."
"Sell him!" said I. "Well, I should not object if he found a good
master. I cannot ride him, and he is practically useless. What price
does he seem inclined to offer?"
"Well, he ain't made any offer, sir; but he seems a good deal took
with him and to like the look of him. Perhaps, sir, he might come and
see you. I told him that I thought a matter o' _fifteen pun_ might buy
un. I dunnow whether I did right, sir, but I told un you would never
take a farden less. I stuck to that."
"No," said I, "certainly not, when the vet.'s bill was twelve pounds
ten--not a farthing less, James."
When the proposed purchaser came, he said, "It's a poor horse--a very
poor horse; he wants a lot of looking after, and I shouldn't think of
buying him except for the sake of seeing what I could do with him, for
I am not fond of lumber, Mr. Hawkins--I don't care for lumber."
It was straightforward, but I did not at the time see his depth of
feeling. He was evidently intending to buy him out of compassion, as
he had some knowledge of his ancestors. But I stuck to my fifteen
pounds hard and fast, and at last he said, "Well, Mr. Hawkins, I'll
give you all you ask, if so be you'll throw in the saddle and bridle!"
I was tired of the negotiations, and yielded; so away went poor
Dreadnought with his saddle and bridle, never for me to look on again.
I was sorry to part with him, and the more so because his life had
been unfortunate. But I was deceived in him as well as in his new
master. From me he had concealed his merits, only to reveal them, as
is often the case with latent genius, when some accidental opportunity
offered.
At that time Bromley in Kent was a central attraction for a great many
second-class patrons of the sporting world. I know little about the
events that were negotiated at Bromley and other small places of
the kind, but there was, as I have been informed, a good deal of
blackguardism and pickpocketing on its course and in its little
primitive streets--lucky if you came out of them with only one black
eye. They would steal the teeth out of your mouth if you did not keep
it shut and your eyes open.
However, Bromley races came on some time after the sale of my
Dreadnought.... The next morning my groom came with a look of
astonishment that seemed to have kept him awake all night, and said,--
"You'll be surprised to hear, sir, that our 'oss has won a fifty-pound
prize at Bromley, and a pot of money besides in bets for his owner."
"Won a prize!" said I. "Was it by standing on his head?"
"Won a _race_, sir."
"Then it must have been a walk-over."
"Oh no, sir; he beat the cracks, beat the favourites, and took in all
the knowing ones. I always said there was something about that there
'oss, sir, that I didn't understand and nobody couldn't understand,
sir."
I was absolutely dumbfounded, knowing very little about "favourites"
or "cracks." My groom I knew I could rely upon, for he always seemed
to be the very soul of honour. I thought at first he might have been
misled in some Bromley taproom, but afterwards found that it was all
true--he had heard it from the owner himself, in whom the public
seemed to place confidence, for they laid very long odds against
Dreadnought.
The animal was famous, but not in that name; he had, like most honest
persons, an alias. How he achieved his victory is uncertain; one
thing, however, is certain--it must have been a startling surprise
to Dreadnought to find himself in a race at all, and still more
astonishing to find himself in front.
"How many ran?" I asked.
"Three, sir; two of 'em crack horses."
At this time I took little interest in pedigrees, and knew nothing
of the "cracks," so the names of those celebrated animals which
Dreadnought had beaten are forgotten. One of them, it appeared, had
been heavily backed at 9 to 4, but Dreadnought did not seem to care
for that; he ran, not on his public form, but on his merits. My eyes
were opened at last, and the whole mystery was solved when James told
me that _all three horses belonged to the same owner_!
From that time to this I never heard what became of Dreadnought, and
never saw the man who bought him, even in the dock. It is strange,
however, that animals so true and faithful as dogs and horses should
be instruments so perverted as to make men liars and rogues; while for
intelligence many of them could give most of us pounds and pass us
easily at the winning-post.
Speaking of dogs reminds me of dog-stealers and _their_ ways, of which
some years ago I had a curious experience. I have told the story
before, but it has become altered, and the true one has never been
heard since. Indeed, no story is told correctly when its copyright is
infringed.
There was a man at the time referred to known as old Sam Linton, the
most extraordinary dog-fancier who ever lived, and the most curious
thing about him was that he always fancied other people's dogs to his
own. He was a remarkable dog-_finder_, too. In these days of dogs'
homes the services of such a man as Linton are not so much in request;
but he was a home in himself, and did a great deal of good in his way
by restoring lost dogs to their owners; so that it became almost a
common question in those days, when a lady lost her pet, to ask if she
had made any inquiry of old Sam Linton. He was better than the wise
woman who indicated in some mysterious jargon where the stolen watch
might or might not be found in the distant future, for old Sam
_brought_ you the very dog on a _specified day_! The wise woman never
knew where the lost property was; old Sam did.
I dare say he was a great blackguard, but as he has long joined the
majority, it is of no consequence. There was one thing I admired about
Sam: there was a thorough absence in him of all hypocrisy and cant. He
professed no religion whatever, but acted upon the principle that a
bargain was a bargain, and should be carried out as between man and
man. That was his idea, and as I found him true to it, I respected him
accordingly, and mention his name as one of the few genuinely honest
men I have met.
The way I made his acquaintance was singular. I was dining with my
brother benchers at the Middle Temple Hall, when a message was brought
that a gentleman would like to see me "partickler" after dinner, if I
could give him a few minutes.
When I came out of the hall, there was a man looking very like a
burglar. His dress, or what you should call his "get-up," is worth a
momentary glance. He had a cat-skin cap in his hand about as large
as a frying-pan, and nearly of the same colour--this he kept turning
round and round first with one hand, then with both--a pea-jacket with
large pearl buttons, corduroy breeches, a kind of moleskin waistcoat,
and blucher shoes. He impressed one in a moment as being fond of
drink. On one or two occasions I found this quality of great service
to me in matters relating to the discovery of lost dogs. Drink, no
doubt, has its advantages to those who do not drink.
"Muster Orkins, sir," said he, "beggin' your pardon, sir, but might I
have a word with you, Muster Orkins, if it ain't a great intrusion,
sir?"
I saw my man at once, and showed him that I understood business.
"You are Sam Linton?"
It took his breath away. He hadn't much, but poor old Sam did not
like to part with it. In a very husky voice, that never seemed to get
outside his mouth, he said,--
"_Yus, sur_; that's it, Mr. Orkins." Then he breathed, "Yer 'onner,
wot I means to say is this--"
"What do you want, Linton? Never mind what you mean to say; I know
you'll never say it."
"Well, Mr. Orkins, sir, ye see it is as this: you've lost a little
dorg. Well, you'll say, 'How do you know that 'ere, Sam?' 'Well, sir,'
I says, ''ow don't I know it? Ain't you bin an' offered _fourteen pun_
for that there leetle dorg? Why, it's knowed dreckly all round Mile
End--the werry 'ome of lorst dorgs--and that there dorg, find him when
you wool, why, he ain't worth more'n _fourteen bob_, sir.' Now, 'ow
d'ye 'count for that, sir?"
"You've seen him, then?"
"Not I," says Sam, unmoved even by a twitch; "but I knows a party as
'as, and it ain't likely, Mr. Orkins, as you'll get 'im by orferin'
a price like that, for why? Why, it stands to reason--don't it, Mr.
Orkins?--it ain't the _dorg_ you're payin' for, but _your feelins_ as
these 'ere wagabonds is _tradin' on, Mr. Orkins_; that's where it is.
O sir, it's abominable, as I tells 'em, keepin' a gennelman's dorg."
I was perfectly thunderstruck with the man's philosophy and good
feeling.
"Go on, Mr. Linton."
"Well, Mr. Orkins, they knows--damn 'em!--as your feelins ull make you
orfer more and more, for who knows that there dorg might belong _to a
lidy_, and then _her_ feelins has to be took into consideration.
I'll tell 'ee now, Mr. Orkins, how this class of wagabond works, for
wagabonds I must allow they be. Well, they meets, let's say, at a
public, and one says to another, 'I say, Bill,' he says, 'that there
dawg as you found 'longs to Lawyer Orkins; he's bloomin' fond o'
dawgs, is Lawyer Orkins, so they say, and he can pay for it.' 'Right
you are,' says Bill, 'and a d---- lawyer _shall_ pay for it. He makes
us pay when we wants him, and now we got him we'll make him pay.' So
you see, Mr. Orkins, where it is, and whereas the way to do it is to
say to these fellers--I'll just suppose, sir, I'm you and you're me,
sir; no offence, I hope--'Well, I wants the dawg back.' Well, they
says; leastways, I ses, ses I,--
"'Lawyer Orkins, you lost a dawg, 'ave yer?'
"'Yes,' ses you, 'I have,' like a gennelman--excuse my imitation,
sir--' and I don't _keer a damn for the whelp_!' That's wot you orter
say. 'He's only a bloomin' mongrel.'"
"Very good; what am I to say next, Mr. Linton?"
"'Don't yer?' says the tother feller; 'then what the h---- are yer
looken arter him for?'
"'Well,' you ses, Mr. Orkins, 'you can go to h----. I don't keer for
the dawg; he ain't my fancy.'"
"A proper place for the whole lot of you, Sam."
"But, excuse me, Mr. Orkins, sir, that's for future occasions. This
'ere present one, in orferin' fourteen pun, you've let the cat out o'
the bag, and what I could ha' done had you consulted me sooner I can't
do now; I could ha' got him for a _fi'-pun note_ at one time, but
they've worked on your feelins, and, mark my words, they'll want
_twenty pun_ as the price o' that there dawg, as sure as my name's Sam
Linton. That's all I got to say, Mr. Orkins, and I thought I'd come
and warn yer like a man--he's got into bad hands, that there dawg."
"I am much obliged, Mr. Linton; you seem to be a
straightforward-dealing man."
"Well, sir, I tries to act upright and downstraight; and, as I ses,
if a man only does that he ain't got nothin' to fear, 'as he, Muster
Orkins?"
"When can I have him, Sam?"
"Well, sir, you can have him--let me see--Monday was a week, when you
lost him; next Monday'll be another week, when I found him; that'll be
a fortnit. Suppose we ses next Tooesday week?"
"Suppose we say to-morrow."
"Oh!" said Sam, "then I thinks you'll be sucked in! The chances are,
Mr. Orkins, you won't see him at all. Why, sir, you don't know how
them chaps carries on their business. Would you believe it, Mr.
Orkins, a gennelman comes to me, and he ses, 'Sam,' he ses, 'I want to
find a little pet dawg as belonged to a lidy'--which was his wife, in
course--and he ses the lidy was nearly out of her mind. 'Well,' I ses,
'sir, to be 'onest with you, don't you mention that there fact to
anybody but me'--because when a lidy goes out of her mind over a lorst
dawg up goes the price, and you can't calculate bank-rate, as they
ses. The price'll go up fablous, Mr. Orkins; there's nothin' rules the
market like that there. Well, at last I agrees to do my best for the
gent, and he says, just as you might say, Mr. Orkins, just now, 'When
can she have him?' Well, I told him the time; but what a innercent
question, Mr. Orkins! 'Why not before?' says he, with a kind of a
angry voice, like yours just now, sir. 'Why, sir,' I ses, 'these
people as finds dawgs 'ave their feelins as well as losers 'as theirs,
and sometimes when they can't find the owner, they sells the animal.'
Well, they sold this gennelman's animal to a major, and the reason why
he couldn't be had for a little while was that the major, being fond
on him, and 'avin' paid a good price for the dawg, it would ha' been
cruel if he did not let him have the pleasure of him like for a few
days--or a week."
Sam and I parted the best of friends, and, I need not say, on the best
of terms I could get. I knew him for many years after this incident,
and say to his credit that, although he was sometimes hard with
customers, he acted, from all one ever heard, strictly in accordance
with the bargain he made, whatever it might be; and what is more
singular than all, I never heard of old Sam Linton getting into
trouble.