Nobody on the Diamond Fields quite knew the beginning of the ill-feeling
between Dr Gorman and Mr Bowker.
It had existed, as far as any one could remember, from the early days of
the Fields, and had been increased and intensified by a hundred matters
of grievance. It is only in a small community, where there is not much
change of thought, and where a fresh face is not very often seen, that
bitter personal hatred can grow luxuriantly, and the rancorous ill-will
between those two men had become part of themselves, adding a sort of
enjoyment to their lives, and influencing many of their actions. Men
knew and counted upon the fact that one of them would oppose the other
in every possible way, and those who were on bad terms with the one
could always reckon on the support and friendship of the other.
It was as much owing to their being respectively directors of the Long
Hope and the New Colonial Mining Companies, as to anything else, that
the disastrous litigation, which eventually swamped both companies,
broke out and was carried on to the bitter end. It was owing to some
one suggesting to Bowker that it was the cherished ambition of Dr
Gorman to represent Kimberley in the House of Assembly, that the former
first took to politics, and began that distinguished public career which
we at the Diamond Fields believed was attracting the attention of
Europe, while the latter, who had no more ambition to become a member of
the Legislative Assembly than to be a bishop, when his enemy issued his
address, at once came forward and began to canvass the constituency on
his own account.
That election was memorable in the annals of the Diamond Fields for
years, and was fought with a spirit which a journal that made a good
thing out of it said was creditable to both parties, and bore witness to
the healthy vitality of the Diamond Fields. Money was thrown about with
a splendid recklessness, and some men, who had the foresight to put
their Kaffir workmen on the register, made a good thing out of the rise
in the value of free and independent voters.
There was no other candidate who stood a ghost of a chance while there
were two seats, so the fight between the two was only for the honour of
being senior member, but it was none the less brisk on that account.
Bowker won, and then both parties got up petitions against each other's
return on account of gross bribery and corruption, and succeeded in
turning each other out.
From that day they were the prominent leaders in local politics, in fact
they helped to form the two parties who became the Guelphs and
Ghibbelines of the Diamond Fields.
Bowker was supposed to own the `Assagai,' a satirical journal that had a
stormy existence for some months, and the doctor was believed to have
found the money for the `Knobkerri,' and to have imported its editor, a
broken-down London journalist, whose power of invective, until he
matured the incipient delirium tremens he brought out with him, was the
terror of Mr Bowker and his party.
When the former journal devoted a series of articles to the doctor's
former life, and to the incidents connected with the suspicious death of
his half-aunt, Bowker was believed to have inspired the attack; while
the biography of Bowker, giving a graphic account of his being tarred
and feathered on the Ovens Gold Field in Australia, in connection with a
charge of petty theft, which sent up the circulation of the `Knobkerri'
to a figure never before or afterwards reached by a newspaper on the
Diamond Fields, was put down to the doctor. Bowker, who achieved a
great reputation in colonial politics by his command of language, saying
"that he recognised the contemptible handiwork of the medical assassin's
dastardly brain." The enmity between these two men increased with the
prosperity of the Diamond Fields, but did not go down with the shares
when the bad times came.
Through good times and bad the feud between them became more bitter.
When things were at their worst, the one felt that the other's bad
fortune made up to a certain extent for his own. When things began to
mend, Bowker felt that his satisfaction at finding himself on the breast
of the wave of returning prosperity was diminished by seeing his old
enemy floating in with him. But with Bowker's shares the doctor's house
property rose in value, and when at length the latter, having become
weary of the dust of the Fields, determined to shake it off his feet for
ever, and return home, he felt that the knowledge that he was leaving
Bowker behind him a prosperous man, who in a year or two would follow
him with a larger fortune, spoilt much of his self-satisfaction.
Bowker, on the other hand, heard with considerable chagrin of the
other's intended departure; he felt that in a way he would miss him, and
thought that life would be dull now there was little chance of seeing
his enemy come to grief, and now it seemed certain on the whole that his
career on the Diamond Fields might be summed up as a successful one.
One evening some days before Gorman was to leave Kimberley, he was with
some of us in the card-room of the club. We had been playing some mild
game of limited loo. We were discussing whether we should go on playing
or leave off, no one taking much interest in the game, when Bowker came
into the room with a look in his face which showed that he had been
taking a fair amount of drink. At that time he was not on speaking
terms with Gorman, but for all that, as he came into the room he stared
more at him than any one else, and seemed to speak to him when he asked
what game we were playing.
"Limited loo! call that a game! No one has got the pluck to play
now-a-days. Now I wouldn't mind having a bit of a gamble to-night, but
I ain't come down to limited loo," he said with a loud laugh, and a
sneer at the doctor.
"What do you want to play?" Gorman said, speaking to Bowker, rather to
the surprise of those who were present.
"Well, I'd play a game of poker if any one would sit down who knew how
to play, as wasn't afraid of the game," Bowker growled out.
"I know how to play, and I'm not afraid of the game either, Mr Bowker,"
the doctor answered quietly enough, but with a note in his voice that
some of us believed meant mischief.
The rest of us did not offer to join in the play, from the first we
fancied it would be a pretty warm game. It was anything but a friendly
one, for it seemed to be rather a duel than a mere gamble, and we felt
sure that when the two men sat down at the table, each one promised
himself that if he could manage it, the other should look back with
considerable regret to that little game of poker.
The two men were a great contrast to each other. Bowker was a heavy,
coarse-looking, bull-necked man of over six feet high, with a straggling
yellow beard growing over his huge red cheeks and jowls. Gorman was a
slight, dark man, clean shaven except a twisted moustache, with a pair
of sharp black eyes. Both men occasionally played high, though they
were not habitual gamblers, and the lookers-on expected to see some
sensational playing.
"What do you say to making the blind five pounds?" said the doctor, as
he sat down and smiled at his opponent.
"Thought you weren't afraid of the game! but you know what you can
afford," the other answered.
"Ten if you like," said the doctor, and then the game began.
For some time the luck ran with provoking evenness; both parties backed
their hands with considerable freedom, but after a couple of hours' play
neither had lost or won very much.
It happened that they both had a considerable sum in notes, which first
collected before one player and then went across to the other. We
watched the money pass from player to player, and waited for the more
serious period of the game, when one party would have come to the end of
his ready money, and play on credit would have begun. After a bit they
increased the amount of the blind to thirty pounds, then to a hundred.
First one player would be some hundred pounds to the good, then the
other would get a turn of luck which would wipe it out again. For a
long time they played without what is called a meet occurring; that is
to say, when one happened to hold a good hand, the other generally held
nothing.
"Hanged if the rent of Gorman's buildings mustn't be going up a bit,
since you're man enough to play that game. What do you put your pile
at?" Bowker had said, when the other had suggested the last increase of
the blind.
"Gorman's buildings are worth about as much as twenty thousand pounds'
worth of stock in the Long Hope Company, are not they, Brown?" the
doctor said, turning round to a share and estate agent who was looking
on at the game.
"Gorman's buildings would fetch twenty-five thousand to-morrow, and we
all know the market price of Long Hope," Brown answered.
"Well, play away and hold your jaw. I ain't afraid of you and your
damned shanties," Bowker answered.
After this change of remarks neither party said another word, except
about the game. We, as we looked on, realised that there was more than
mere gamblers' greed in the savage hard look in their eyes. They were
anxious to ruin one another, rather than to win money; the hatred of a
dozen years seemed to find a vent in that game. The amount that Bowker
held in the Long Hope Company was known to be about equal to the price
put upon Gorman's buildings, a row of offices near the mine; so the
terms on which they met were quite fair. As hour after hour passed the
game went on, neither party winning or losing much, but each in turn
being to the good. They were both fine players, the doctor the more
cautious of the two, while Bowker had on the whole the best luck, which
carried him through one or two attempts to win by sheer force of
bluffing. As the doctor looked into the mask of red flesh opposite him,
he for some time found nothing there to give any clue as to the sort of
hand his opponent held; but in the small hours of the morning he began
to notice that every now and then the veins in his face would seem to
swell, and his breathing would become harder. The luck just then was
rather in the doctor's favour, and after he had won several stakes he
was able to diagnose his opponent's symptoms of intense excitement
pretty satisfactorily. When Bowker had a strong hand he would back it
without showing these signs, but when he was in doubt, and backing his
hand for more than it was worth, they would appear.
"You had better not try that on again, it's not good for your health,
and worse for your pocket, you will find, my friend," the doctor said to
himself, as he dealt out the cards, determined that before long he would
utilise the piece of knowledge which he fancied he had acquired.
For some time after that, however, Bowker got hand after hand that there
was no resisting, and the doctor's winnings were reduced to nothing.
It was getting on into the morning, but the club was still kept up, and
several members stayed on watching the sensational game played out. At
last the doctor took up a hand of three knaves, a king, and an ace,
doubled the blind, and then changed the king and the ace, getting a
queen and another knave. He had four knaves, but he had the best
possible four, for he held a queen and had thrown away a king and an
ace. Unless Bowker held a straight flush (that is to say, a sequence of
the same suit) he could not hold as good a hand. Bowker had taken one
card, and his heavy coarse face showed no sign. The betting went up at
first gradually, then by leaps and bounds till it came to a thousand
pounds.
There was no limit to the amount that could be staked, but the game of
poker played on the Diamond fields only allowed a player to raise the
amount at one time to double what had already been staked.
"Make it a thousand, that's a good bit of your street," Bowker said
coolly enough.
"Two," said the doctor.
"Four," answered Bowker.
The doctor began to wonder whether after all Bowker might not have a
straight flush, but just then he felt sure that he saw the signs in his
face he had noticed before.
"Eight," said the doctor, and there was an expression in his bright eyes
that meant danger, as he looked into the other's face.
Bowker stared at his hand for some seconds, before, in a husky voice, he
said--
"Sixteen. That's about all your shanties are worth," he added, seeming
to gain courage.
"How much did you say, Brown--twenty-four thousand five hundred? Make
it that; that's the amount of my street and your shares, Bowker," Gorman
said, and we all noticed the tone of malice in his voice, which had kept
calm and emotionless all through the play.
For a second or two Bowker did not answer. He looked like an elephant
which had received its death-wound, so a man who had just come down from
the Zambesi said.
"Twenty-four thousand five hundred. Well, I will make it up to that and
go." Then he stopped, as if he realised he had about got to the end of
his tether.
Not only the doctor, but every one in the room, felt pretty sure that he
had a bad hand, and that the finish of the game had come.
Every face was turned to Bowker; the lookers-on wondering what he would
do, and how he would take his bad luck. For a second he seemed to be
trying to think. Then a dazed look came into his face, and he half
stood up, and then fell heavily forward, bringing the table down with
him. There was a paraffin lamp on the table, which smashed as it fell,
and in a second the cloth and table was blazing. There was a rush
forward of the men looking on. Bowker was lifted on to a sofa, and a
doctor, who on his way home from a case had dropped into the club,
seeing it open, began to attend to him.
"By Jove! the place will be burnt down!" some one cried, and some men
rushed out of the room to get water, while others tried to put out the
fire with rugs.
Gorman stood holding his cards in his hand, looking first at his
opponent and then at the blazing card-table.
"Well, how are we going to play this out? This is a damn pretty thing,"
he said. He did not care about Bowker's state of health, nor did he
care whether the building were burnt down or not.
"See here, where are his cards? we have got to see this out.
Twenty-four thou, is no laughing matter. He never raised, so we had
better show our cards. What's he got?" Gorman said, as he stood with
his cards in hand.
The fire was put out. Bowker was on the sofa looking rather bad, but
the doctor seemed to be perfectly careless about everything except the
stake he felt sure he had won.
"Never mind about the game, man, now; maybe the poor fellow will never
get round," one of the men who was looking at Bowker said.
"Beg pardon, but I do care about the game; it's all very well his going
into a fit, but that don't alter the fact that we've got to play this
out. Where are his cards?"
"You want to see his hand, do you? Well, there you are," some one said,
holding up a charred mass which was all there was left of the cloth that
had been on the table, or the rest of the cards, except the four knaves
and a queen which Gorman held in his hand.
Gorman looked at it for a second, and then with an oath he threw his own
cards on to the floor.
"Four knaves and a queen, and I had at first an ace and a king. So I
must win with them."
"The question is, what had Bowker? He don't look like telling you, and
nobody else knows; besides, the game has not been played out. It's a
draw," said one of the on-lookers, and this speech brought a murmur of
consent from the others.
Gorman gathered up his cards and showed them to the company. Then he
said no more, but watched Bowker, who seemed to be coming to.
"Look here, what was your hand?" he asked, when the latter seemed to be
sensible.
Bowker, however, did not answer the question, and it was some months
before he could be induced to talk about that game. Until Gorman left
the Fields his mind was a blank on the subject.
The story went, however, that he was induced to tell in confidence the
story of that night's play to a particular friend.
He had held three aces and two kings. Not a very good hand, but one
worth backing for a little. Gorman, however, had taken him up, and
instead of throwing up his hand, he had determined to bluff. He had
originally held a queen, so he knew that Gorman could not hold four of
aces, kings, or queens. He could remember getting to the end of his
tether, and finding Gorman sticking to him like grim death; and then he
could remember no more. It was only after Gorman had left for England
that this story was told. Some people shrug their shoulders and laugh
when they talk of that fit which Bowker had, and they say that under the
circumstances it was the best thing he could have done. But the doctor
who attended him knows it was real enough, and so does Gorman, who saw
it coming on.
Story 9.
"A WHISKEY DRINKER."
The `Queen's Hotel,' Kimberley, was doing a roaring trade. The bar was
one dense mass of thirsty men, struggling to get served with splits and
other drinks. The large dining-room, out of which the tables had been
taken, was crowded. People from all parts of the colony were there.
Dutch Africanders from the western province, Englishmen from the east;
colonial soldiers; officers of the Cape Mounted Rifles, and mounted
police officers from the frontier; merchants from Capetown and Port
Elizabeth, and visitors from every part of South Africa. Besides these
visitors there was every sort of Diamond-Field man represented. The
honest digger--the expression is considered out there the correct one to
use, though if it be your lot to have much dealing with the mining
element of South Africa you will wonder how it came into vogue--with his
broad-brimmed hat and big beard and bad language is making himself
conspicuous as he generally does, wherever he be. The diamond-buyers,
licensed and unlicenced, gentlemen of the Jewish persuasion for the most
part, given as a rule to wearing much of their stock-in-trade on their
hands, and indulging in that shiny smartness of dress so dear to the
race; the latter, the unlicenced and unlawful dealers in diamonds,
wearing in their eyes that restless uneasy look that is peculiar to
those classes who are liable at any moment to find themselves involved
in an embarrassing and one-sided misunderstanding with the police.
There were merchants, speculators, lawyers, doctors, and civil servants
there. About some men who took rather a prominent position there was
the unmistakable betting man's look; and they gave one the idea that
they would be at home in the ring at any English race meeting. The
occasion was the drawing of the lotteries for the forthcoming races, and
as times had been good, and money was plentiful, sovereigns were flowing
in very quickly to the men who were giving out the chances. I was
looking on smoking when I recognised a slight, good-looking man who was
taking a ticket in the lottery. His name was Jack Harman, an ex-officer
in the army, who had been a digger on the Diamond Fields, had married
and settled in the colony.
"How is it you're up here?" I said to him as I shook hands with him.
"A married man like you ought not to be wandering about the country."
"You're right--wish to goodness I was at home, for the missis is ill;
but I have to look after my horses up here."
"Well, I suppose your horse Marmion is a certainty for the cup, eh?" I
said. "Up here they think the race is over."
"All I can say is, that it isn't, I wish it were, for it's a rich prize,
and goodness knows I want the money badly enough."
Just then a dark-bearded man pushed past Jack Harman, and as he did so
gave him a look of recognition which the latter answered by a blank
stare.
"Who's that?--who's your friend?" I asked him.
"That is one of the blackest-hearted scoundrels unhanged; he is a sort
of fellow you read about in a book; Solomon Muzada is his name, and he
is one of the greatest enemies I have. Do you know that brute wanted to
marry my wife; it's an infernal cheek because there is a touch of the
tar-brush in him. Dutchman, Jew, and nigger--it's a nice breed, isn't
it? Of course she wouldn't look at him, and since our marriage he has
been our enemy. There was a mortgage on Laurie's Kloof, on which I
ought to have paid the interest, but didn't; well he has bought it, and
by Jove he is going to sell us up. He has sworn he will make a bankrupt
of me, and I believe he will do it. Do you hear that? I have drawn a
horse Storm Drum. By George, that's a rum thing!" he added, as he
caught something which the steward of the races, who was managing the
drawing, had shouted out. "Look here, are you going to do anything
about the races, because don't make any bets till you have seen me. I
must see about the selling," he said as he went off.
A steward had got upon one of the tables, upon which a desk had been
put, and was about to sell the chances. Anglo-Indians or South Africans
need no explanation of a selling lottery, but to some Englishmen an
explanation may be given. After the lotteries have been drawn the
chances of the different horses are sold by auction; any ore present is
allowed to bid, but in perhaps the generality of cases the owners of
horses buy the chances, this being the best way of backing their horses
to win a good amount. The highest bidder has to pay the amount of his
bid twice over, once to the owner of the ticket that drew the horse, and
again he has to pay it into the pool. The latter money, of course, he
gets back again, together with the amount collected for the tickets and
the prices paid for the other chances if the horse whose chance he
bought wins. After the chance of some outsider had been sold for a few
pounds the steward, who was acting as auctioneer, shouted out that the
next chance to be sold was Marmion. "Gentlemen, Captain Harman's
Marmion, and three hundred and four pounds in the pool."
The sporting division began to make calculations in their betting-books,
and to be all on the alert to learn what those who knew most about it
thought of the horse's chance.
I watched Jack Harman carefully. "Poor beggar, he wants money badly! I
hope he will be able to buy Marmion's chance cheap," I thought to
myself, as I noticed the expression on his face. As I looked away from
him I saw Solomon Muzada, the man Jack had told me about; he also was
watching Jack, and I believe, from the devilish smile that was playing
round his coarse, thick lips, that he too read the expression I saw.
"Captain Harman's Marmion, three hundred and four pounds in the pool,"
the steward cried out, and the bidding began.
Some one bid twenty pounds, some one thirty, thirty-five, forty, fifty,
sixty, a hundred; then the bidding steadied, and went up a pound at a
time till a hundred and fifty was reached.
"That's all it will go for," said a bookmaker near me; "it's buying
money to give more."
He was wrong though; a hundred and ninety was reached before only two
bidders were left--one was Jack Harman, the other was Solomon Muzada.
"Going at one hundred and ninety, three hundred pounds in the pool,"
said the steward.
"Ninety-one," cried out Jack Harman.
"Ninety-two," snarled out Solomon Muzada.
"Three."
"Bah! what's the good, I bid five," said Muzada.
Jack Harman seemed to be doing a sum in mental arithmetic then, he
shrugged his shoulders and walked away, letting Marmion's chance be
knocked down to Solomon Muzada.
"See, that is done to spite me; he'd do anything to prevent me winning
any money, the brute! I'll sell him though. If Mr Muzada thinks I
keep horses in training to win money for him he makes a mistake," Harman
said, as he came up to me; then raising his voice he turned to Muzada,
who was standing near: "Well, what do you expect to make by this?
You're pretty clever to buy a horse against an owner, but you'll find if
it wasn't worth my while to pay for the horse's chance it wasn't worth
yours."
"Ah! this is the Captain who is such an honourable gentleman, and he
says he will humbug me, and not let his horse win because I bought the
lottery," Muzada sneered; "but I tink the honourable Captain can't
afford to throw away the stakes, so that's why I buy Marmion's chance."
"You think I can't afford to lose the stakes--well, you will find out
whether I can afford that; all I say is, that you sha'n't win money by
my horse."
"Your horse! well, he won't be your horse long, you will have to sell
him after the race. You're a nice man to own horses--a beggar like you;
you will be sold up soon after the race is over. I will buy your horse
then."
"That depends on others as well as you, for the horse will be sold by
public auction; but stop, since you have bought the horse's lottery you
had better buy him now at once, you shall have him with his engagements
for fifteen hundred pounds, he is worth more to you than to any one
else."
Muzada looked eagerly at Harman as he made this suggestion. He had set
his mind on buying Marmion after the race, and he thought he might as
well buy him before. He could not quite understand why Jack was willing
to sell to him. The price mentioned seemed not to be very much,
considering that the horse was sure to win the race the next day; so
some of the purchase money would come back.
"Don't be a fool, the horse is worth more than that," another owner of
race-horses whispered to Jack.
Muzada heard the whisper, and that determined him; after haggling for
some time about the price he came to terms with Jack.
"What have you done that for? it seems to me you would have done better
to have secured the stakes before you sold the horse," I said to Jack,
after the sale had been completed.
"I don't think Marmion is going to win that race; it was not certain
before, it certainly isn't now," Jack answered, somewhat to my
mystification.
"Why, what's to beat him?" I asked; "what can?"
"There is one that can beat him if he liked, and that's the horse that I
have drawn--Storm Drum."
I looked at Jack in surprise. Storm Drum was owned by a Kimberley
canteen-keeper, who had bought him after the races the year before. He
had gained an evil reputation by his savage temper, and had never
started for a race without distinguishing himself by some display of
vice. On one occasion he had shown a tendency towards indulging in the
luxury of human flesh, having taken a large bite out of the leg of a
jockey riding another horse.
"Surely you don't mean that you believe that brute can have a chance?"
I asked incredulously.
"It's all chance. If he took it into his head to try it would be a
certainty. You needn't tell me all you know about him, you seem to
forget that he was in our stable; he belonged to Markham of Port
Elizabeth, and I won a race on him in Natal, and have ridden him often
enough. He was a better horse than Marmion, in fact he is the best
horse that ever came out to this country, only he is such an
untrustworthy brute."
I shook my head. Jack Harman knew a good deal more about racing than I
did, still I could not help feeling that his anger with Muzada was
making him act rashly; and I was still more of this opinion after I had
been present at an interview between them next morning. Muzada was
standing at the bar of the `Queen's Hotel,' swaggering about the good
bargain he had made with Jack, and the folly of the latter in selling
out of pique, when Jack came in. Some one asked him if he was going to
ride in the Kimberley Cup the next day.
"Yes, I am; I ride Storm Drum," Jack answered.
Muzada burst out laughing. The horse's eccentricities were so
well-known, that he thought with pleasure how the man he hated was
certain to look ridiculous.
"So, Captain, you are going to ride; how much will you bet that you ever
get round the course?" said Muzada, talking to Jack in his free and easy
way, which I knew made my friend's blood boil. "Come, you had better
put your pride in your pocket, and ride for _me_," he added, as it
occurred to him that this would annoy Jack.
"Thank you, but it is bad enough that you should own a thoroughbred
horse, let alone that a white man should ride for you," Jack answered
with a glance at the other's dark skin, which was full of meaning.
Muzada looked for a second or two as if he were thinking of hitting
Jack, then thinking better of it he pretended not to understand the
allusion.
"Well, who would like to back Captain Harman's mount? I will bet ten to
one against Storm Drum, even though this famous gentleman jockey does
ride for Pat Brady."
"How much will you lay it to?" Jack asked.
There was a gleam in Muzada's eyes as he heard this question.
"To a good deal more than you can afford to pay," he answered, thinking
to himself that Jack was going mad.
The idea of Storm Drum's having any chance of winning the race seemed
too absurd to be entertained for a minute; and Muzada thought that Jack
had realised that he was likely soon to become ruined, and had become
desperate.
Jack Harman said nothing, and I whispered to him a warning not to do
anything rash.
"Come, I have some money to give you for Marmion, after we have settled
the bills I hold; well, I will lay you ten to one to that."
"That's four hundred pounds. Well, I will take four thousand to four
hundred," Jack answered in the same quiet voice.
Muzada looked a little surprised; he evidently thought that Jack was mad
with annoyance. The idea of winning what he had every reason to believe
was Jack's last four hundred pounds in the world was very sweet to him.
There were one or two men present, who were fairly good judges, and
their expressions seemed to tell Muzada that they thought Jack was mad.
"It's a bet," he said, as he wrote it down in his book.
"Why on earth have you thrown that money away?" I asked Jack, as I
followed him into the street.
"It's not thrown away yet," he answered; "and I never could get as much
money bet against the horse by any one else; he only does it because he
knows that if I lose it will about break me."
"Well, why should you be broke, why not keep your money in your pocket?"
I insisted rather wearisomely, for it was not much use lecturing my
friend when the mischief was done.
"Look here, I am going to win on Storm Drum. Take my advice and take
ten to one or eight to one for the matter of that. You see, it's like
this," Jack said, as he noticed my expression, "these races are my last
chance of winning some money, so as to prevent that black scoundrel from
selling me up. When I married I hadn't much of my own, as you know, and
though my wife owned the farm and the homestead, it was mortgaged a good
bit. Instead of paying off the mortgage we have let matters go from bad
to worse, and have taken things easily enough until we found that Muzada
had been quietly getting hold of all the paper I had put my name to, and
of all the charges on our property. It was just the revenge that would
please him, to make us beggars, and show my wife that she had married a
spendthrift, who had wasted all she had and brought her to ruin. Muzada
knew that I trusted to winning a fair stake with Marmion, and he came up
here to prevent it. He would spend a good deal of money to stop me from
winning enough to keep his claws off Laurie's Kloof. Well, I have
determined to do my best to disappoint him. I have always had a sort of
presentiment that some day or the other Storm Drum would surprise every
one, and when I drew the horse in the lottery and no one bid the chance
so that it was knocked down to me, the idea came into my head that my
only chance of saving Laurie's Kloof was to trust to that uncertain
gentleman. Imprudent you may say, well perhaps it is, but let me tell
you this, that I know more about the horse than you do, and something
tells me that it will be all right, and Mr Muzada will find out to his
cost that he has burnt his fingers in meddling with my affairs."
I could do nothing but hope for the best, but I found it very difficult
to feel much confidence in my friend's scheme coming off successfully;
and that evening I watched Muzada and noticed that he was in a high
state of delight, and was counting beforehand on the discomfiture of the
enemy.
Racecourse scenes are like one another all the world over. The crowd at
the grand stand was composed of much the same materials as the crowd at
minor meetings at home. The principal difference probably would be,
that on the colonial racecourse people know much more about one another
than they do at home; and there is strong personal interest felt in the
result of the races. The story of Jack Harman's having sold the horse
to Muzada was well-known to every one on the course, and to a certain
extent rather decreased the confidence felt in the favourite winning,
though it was not easy to see what horse could beat him.
Jack Harman had been a digger on the Diamond Fields before he married
and settled down in the colony, and a good many of his old friends
invested a sovereign or two on the chances of the horse he had elected
to ride, but very little hope was felt as to his chance. The local
bookmakers, who had many a time won money from those who had put their
trust in Storm Drum's good breeding, were anxious enough to lay odds
against him again, although they had heard the story of Harman's
sensational bet.
Pat Brady, who owned Storm Drum, was a short, thick-set, good-humoured
little Irishman, who had often been subjected to a good deal of chaff on
account of the way his horse would shut up and refuse to try a yard in
public. At last he had sworn never to bet another farthing upon him,
and had declared that after the Kimberley Cup he would sell him for what
he would fetch. Jack Harman, however, seemed to have infected Pat with
a good deal of his hopefulness.
"Sure then the Captain is going to do the trick to-day; those fellows
won't be laughing about Storm Drum in half-an-hour's time, you'll find,"
he said to his friends, as the bookmakers joked him about his horse.
There were two or three other imported horses as well as Marmion, and
one colonial-bred one who was thought to have a chance. I found myself
standing on the top of the grand stand, next to Muzada, when the horses
had gone down to the post, and I noticed with some pleasure that that
gentleman did not seem to be enjoying himself very much. He was
evidently thinking of the money he stood to lose on Storm Drum.
"Laid ten to one against him did you? well, if he tried it would be odds
on him, but it's more than ten to one he don't try," a well-known
colonial racing-man named Langford, whom I had just seen laying two
hundred to fifty on Marmion, was saying to Muzada, as he looked through
his race-glasses at the horses getting together at the starting-post.
"How is he behaving now--him?" said Muzada, with a scowl on his ugly
face. He was not over comforted at the other's remarks. After all Jack
Harman had not made such a bad bet, and he didn't like the way the horse
was being backed by one or two others; nor was he pleased to hear that
Pat Brady had recovered that confidence in the gay deceiver which of old
cost him so dear.
"He is behaving himself wonderfully well; wait a bit though, and he will
come out in his old character."
"Why, man, you look nervous," said the other; "never fear, your horse is
sure to win."
Muzada looked gratified.
"I think the Captain will find he has humbugged himself this time; I
think he'll have to walk down to the colony after the race," he said.
"They're off--it's a good start," said Langford, and we put up our
glasses.
Jack Harman went straight to the front.
"Who's that leading?"
"Storm Drum."
"Storm Drum has bolted!" they were crying out.
"Devil a bit bolted. Jack thinks that to win at all he must take the
lead and keep it, and, by Jove, he's right," said Langford. "But I have
never seen him go like that before."
"How about Storm Drum now?" shouted out some one, as he came past the
stand leading by twenty lengths.
"Ah, then, who's got the laugh this day?" Pat Brady cried out.
"There's lots of time for him to come out with his old tricks, but if he
don't they won't catch him," said Langford.
Muzada snarled out a sentence hideous with blasphemy.
"Even if he wins his bet the triumph will have cost him something," I
thought, as I looked at his ugly face, and saw how sick he looked as
Storm Drum came along, the gap between him and the other horse rather
increasing than decreasing.
"It's a race! Marmion wins!" shouted some one, as for a second the
favourite looked dangerous.
"Not a bit of it; Storm Drum has the lot of 'em settled," said Langford
as he put down his glasses; "he is on his good behaviour for once, and
he has made fools of us all."
As Storm Drum came past the post, an easy winner, men began to remember
how they had always said he was the best bred horse in South Africa, and
better class than anything else out there, and generally to be wise
after the event.
Muzada was not able to take his losses so philosophically. He got into
a rage, swearing that he had been robbed, that Marmion had been got at,
and that the whole thing was a swindle. Nobody sympathised with him
very much, and even those who had lost their money found some
consolation in his disappointment.
"So, you see, I was not so rash as you thought; but then I happened to
know something about the horse that no one else knew," said Jack Harman
to me that evening. "When Tom Markham owned him we found out that he
could not be depended upon, and after he had let us in once or twice we
determined to get rid of him. One day, however, at Cradock races, a man
came up to us and said he thought he could tell us something about the
horse. He had been employed in a stable at home, where Blue Peter,
Storm Drum's sire, was trained. Blue Peter was just such another
customer as his son, till somehow it was found out that he had a
weakness for strong drink. His favourite tipple was whiskey, Irish
whiskey, the older and better it was the more he liked it--it seemed to
put heart in him, and after he took to drink he won race after race for
them, and our informant suggested that the taste might be inherited.
Well, we determined to give his idea a trial, and before Storm Drum
started for the race he won in Natal, he had his half bottle of whiskey.
It seemed to agree with him, for he went right away and won. A few
weeks after that Markham went to grief, and had to bolt to South
America, and Storm Drum was seized by his creditors. One or two men
owned him before he came to Pat Brady, but they all burnt their fingers
with him; for no one knew of his family failing, and as a Good Templar
he didn't turn out a success, but I always remembered what he could do
if he liked, and when Muzada interfered with me I thought how I could
sell him if I put Storm Drum on his good behaviour. Well, it came off
all right, but I didn't enjoy that ride; every moment I was afraid that
the brute would stop dead, but thanks to Pat's whiskey, he had won the
race before he remembered himself. It's the last bet I shall make in
this country. I shall go back and look after the farm, and the missis,
and the kids, now that I am out of Muzada's clutches again."
Jack Harman was as good as his word, and there is no steadier husband or
better specimen of the colonial farmer than the ex-hussar. He lives
happily at Laurie's Kloof, and prosperous and well to do.
Story 10.