Had a Horse
I
Some quarter of a century ago, there abode in Oxford a small bookmaker called James Shrewin—or more usually ‘Jimmy’—a run-about and damped-down little man, who made a precarious living out of the effect of horses on undergraduates. He had a so-called office just off the ‘Corn,’ where he was always open to the patronage of the young bloods of Bullingdon, and other horse-loving coteries, who bestowed on him sufficient money to enable him to live. It was through the conspicuous smash of one of them—young Gardon Colquhoun—that he became the owner of a horse. He had been far from wanting what was in the nature of a white elephant to one of his underground habits, but had taken it in discharge of betting debts, to which, of course, in the event of bankruptcy, he would have no legal claim. She was a three-year old chestnut filly, by Lopez out of Calendar, bore the name of Calliope, and was trained out on the Downs near Wantage. On a Sunday afternoon, then, in late July, ‘Jimmy’ got his friend, George Pulcher, the publican, to drive him out there in his sort of dog-cart.
“Must ’ave a look at the bilkin’ mare,” he had said; “that young ‘Cocoon’ told me she was a corker; but what’s third to Referee at Sandown, and never ran as a two-year-old? All I know is, she’s eatin’ ’er ’ead off!”
Beside the plethoric bulk of Pulcher, clad in a light-coloured box-cloth coat with enormous whitish buttons and a full-blown rose in the lapel, ‘Jimmy’s’ little, thin, dark-clothed form, withered by anxiety and gin, was, as it were, invisible; and compared with Pulcher’s setting sun, his face, with shaven cheeks sucked in, and smudged-in eyes, was like a ghost’s under a grey bowler. He spoke offhandedly about his animal, but he was impressed, in a sense abashed, by his ownership. ‘What the ’ell?’ was his constant thought. Was he going to race her, sell her—what? How, indeed, to get back out of her the sum he had been fool enough to let young ‘Cocoon’ owe him, to say nothing of her trainer’s bill? The notion, too, of having to confront that trainer with his ownership was oppressive to one whose whole life was passed in keeping out of the foreground of the picture. Owner! He had never owned even a white mouse, let alone a white elephant. And an ’orse would ruin him in no time if he didn’t look alive about it!
The son of a small London baker, devoted to errandry at the age of fourteen, ‘Jimmy’ Shrewin owed his profession to a certain smartness at sums, a dislike of baking, and an early habit of hanging about street corners with other boys, who had their daily pennies on an ’orse. He had a narrow, calculating head, which pushed him towards street corner books before he was eighteen. From that time on he had been a surreptitious nomad, till he had silted up at Oxford, where, owing to Vice-Chancellors, an expert in underground life had greater scope than elsewhere. When he sat solitary at his narrow table in the back room near the ‘Corn’—for he had no clerk or associate—eyeing the door, with his lists in a drawer before him, and his black shiny betting-book ready for young ‘bloods,’ he had a sharp, cold, furtive air, and but for a certain imitated tightness of trouser, and a collar standing up all round, gave no impression of ever having heard of the quadruped called horse. Indeed, for ‘Jimmy’ ‘horse’ was a newspaper quantity with figures against its various names. Even when, for a short spell, hanger-on to a firm of Cheap Ring bookmakers, he had seen almost nothing of horse; his racecourse hours were spent ferreting among a bawling, perspiring crowd, or hanging round within earshot of tight-lipped nobs, trainers, jockeys, anyone who looked like having ‘information.’ Nowadays he never went near a race-meeting—his business, of betting on races, giving him no chance—yet his conversation seldom deviated for more than a minute at a time from that physically unknown animal, the horse. The ways of making money out of it, infinite, intricate, variegated, occupied the mind in all his haunts, to the accompaniment of liquid and tobacco. Gin and bitters was ‘Jimmy’s’ drink; for choice he smoked cheroots; and he would cherish in his mouth the cold stump of one long after it had gone out, for the homely feeling it gave him, while he talked, or listened to talk on horses. He was of that vast number, town bred, who, like crows round a carcase, feed on that which to them is not alive. And now he had a horse!
The dog-cart travelled at a clinking pace behind Pulcher’s bobtail. ‘Jimmy’s’ cheroot burned well in the warm July air; the dust powdered his dark clothes and pinched, sallow face. He thought with malicious pleasure of that young spark ‘Cocoon’s’ collapse—high-’anded lot of young fools, thinking themselves so knowing; many were the grins, and not few the grittings of his blackened teeth he had to smother at their swagger. ‘Jimmy, you robber!’ ‘Jimmy, you little blackguard!’ Young sparks—gay and languid—well, one of ’em had gone out!
He looked round with his screwed-up eyes at his friend George Pulcher, who, man and licensed victualler, had his bally independence; lived remote from ‘the Quality’ in his paradise, the Green Dragon; had not to kowtow to anyone; went to Newbury, Gatwick, Stockbridge, here and there, at will. Ah! George Pulcher had the ideal life—and looked it: crimson, square, full-bodied. Judge of a horse, too, in his own estimation; a leery bird—for whose judgment ‘Jimmy’ had respect—who got ‘the office’ of any clever work as quick as most men! And he said:
“What am I going to do with this blinkin’ ’orse, George?”
Without moving its head the oracle spoke in a voice rich and raw: “Let’s ’ave a look at her first, Jimmy! Don’t like her name—Calliope; but you can’t change what’s in the Stud-book. This Jenning that trains ’er is a crusty chap.”
‘Jimmy’ nervously sucked-in his lips. The cart was mounting through the hedgeless fields which fringed the Downs; larks were singing, the wheat was very green, the patches of charlock brightened everything; it was lonely, few trees, few houses, no people, extreme peace, just a few rooks crossing under a blue sky.
“Wonder if he’ll offer us a drink?” said ‘Jimmy.’
“Not he; but help yourself, my son.”
‘Jimmy’ helped himself from a large wicker-covered flask.
“Good for you, George—here’s how!”
The large man shifted the reins and drank, in turn, tilting up a face whose jaw still struggled to assert itself against chins and neck.
“Well, here’s to your bloomin’ horse,” he said. “She can’t win the Derby now, but she may do us a bit of good yet.”
II
The trainer, Jenning, coming from his Sunday afternoon round of the boxes, heard the sound of wheels. He was a thin man, neat in clothes and boots, medium in height, with a slight limp, narrow grey whiskers, thin shaven lips, eyes sharp and grey.
A dog-cart stopping at his yard-gate; and a rum-looking couple of customers!
“Well, gentlemen?”
“Mr. Jenning? My name’s Pulcher—George Pulcher. Brought a client of yours over to see his new mare. Mr. James Shrewin, Oxford city.”
‘Jimmy’ got down and stood before his trainer’s uncompromising stare.
“What mare’s that?” said Jenning.
“Callĭōpe.”
“Callīŏpĕ—Mr. Colquhoun’s?”
‘Jimmy’ held out a letter.
“Dear Jenning,
“I have sold Calliope to Jimmy Shrewin, the Oxford bookie. He takes her with all engagements and liabilities, including your training bill. I’m frightfully sick at having to part with her, but needs must when the devil drives.
“Gardon Colquhoun.”
The trainer folded the letter.
“Got proof of registration?”
‘Jimmy’ drew out another paper.
The trainer inspected it, and called out: “Ben, bring out Calliope. Excuse me a minute,” and he walked into his house.
‘Jimmy’ stood, shifting from leg to leg. Mortification had set in; the dry abruptness of the trainer had injured even a self-esteem starved from youth.
The voice of Pulcher boomed. “Told you he was a crusty devil. ’And ’im a bit of his own.”
The trainer was coming back.
“My bill,” he said. “When you’ve paid it you can have the mare. I train for gentlemen.”
“The hell you do!” said Pulcher.
‘Jimmy’ said nothing, staring at the bill. Seventy-eight pounds three shillings! A buzzing fly settled in the hollow of his cheek, and he did not even brush it off. Seventy-eight pound!
The sound of hoofs roused him. Here came his horse, throwing up her head as if enquiring why she was being disturbed a second time on Sunday! In the movement of that small head and satin neck was something free and beyond present company.
“There she is,” said the trainer. “That’ll do, Ben. Stand, girl!”
Answering to a jerk or two of the halter, the mare stood kicking slightly with a white hind foot and whisking her tail. Her bright coat shone in the sunlight, and little shivers and wrinklings passed up and down its satin because of the flies. Then, for a moment, she stood still, ears pricked, eyes on the distance.
‘Jimmy’ approached her. She had resumed her twitchings, swishings, and slight kicking, and at a respectful distance he circled, bending as if looking at crucial points. He knew what her sire and dam had done, and all the horses that had beaten or been beaten by them; could have retailed by the half-hour the peculiar hearsay of their careers; and here was their offspring in flesh and blood, and he was dumb! He didn’t know a thing about what she ought to look like, and he knew it; but he felt obscurely moved. She seemed to him ‘a picture.’
Completing his circle, he approached her head, white-blazed, thrown up again in listening, or scenting, and gingerly he laid his hand on her neck, warm and smooth as a woman’s shoulder. She paid no attention to his touch, and he took his hand away. Ought he to look at her teeth or feel her legs? No, he was not buying her, she was his already; but he must say something. He looked round. The trainer was watching him with a little smile. For almost the first time in his life the worm turned in ‘Jimmy’ Shrewin; he spoke no word and walked back to the cart.
“Take her in,” said Jenning.
From his seat beside Pulcher, ‘Jimmy’ watched the mare returning to her box.
“When I’ve cashed your cheque,” said the trainer, “you can send for her;” and, turning on his heel, he went towards his house. The voice of Pulcher followed him.
“Blast your impudence! Git on, bobtail, we’ll shake the dust off ’ere.”
Among the fringing fields the dog-cart hurried away. The sun slanted, the heat grew less, the colour of young wheat and of the charlock brightened.
“The tyke! By Gawd, Jimmy, I’d ’ave hit him on the mug! But you’ve got one there. She’s a bit o’ blood, my boy; and I know the trainer for her, Polman—no blasted airs about ’im.”
‘Jimmy’ sucked at his cheroot.
“I ain’t had your advantages, George, and that’s a fact. I got into it too young, and I’m a little chap. But I’ll send the —— my cheque to-morrow. I got my pride, I ’ope.” It was the first time that thought had ever come to him.
III
Though not quite the centre of the Turf, the Green Dragon had nursed a coup in its day, nor was it without a sense of veneration. The ownership of Calliope invested ‘Jimmy’ Shrewin with the importance of those out of whom something can be had. It took time for one so long accustomed to beck and call, to mole-like procedure, and the demeanour of young bloods, to realise that he had it. But slowly, with the marked increase of his unpaid-for cheroots, with the way in which glasses hung suspended when he came in, with the edgings up to him, and a certain tendency to accompany him along the street, it dawned on him that he was not only an out-of-bounds bookie, but a man. So long as he had remained unconscious of his double nature he had been content with laying the odds, as best he might, and getting what he could out of every situation, straight or crooked. Now that he was also a man, his complacency was ruffled. He suffered from a growing headiness connected with his horse. She was trained, now, by Polman, further along the Downs, too far for Pulcher’s bobtail; and though her public life was carried on at the Green Dragon, her private life required a train journey over night. ‘Jimmy’ took it twice a week—touting his own horse in the August mornings up on the Downs, without drink or talk, or even cheroots. Early morning, larks singing, and the sound of galloping hoofs! In a moment of expansion he confided to Pulcher that it was ‘bally ’olesome.’
There had been the slight difficulty of being mistaken for a tout by his new trainer, Polman, a stoutish man with the look of one of those large sandy Cornish cats, not precisely furtive because reticence and craft are their nature. But, that once over, his personality swelled slowly. This month of August was one of those interludes, in fact, when nothing happens, but which shape the future by secret ripening.
An error to suppose that men conduct finance, high or low, from greed, or love of gambling; they do it out of self-esteem, out of an itch to prove their judgment superior to their neighbours’, out of a longing for importance. George Pulcher did not despise the turning of a penny, but he valued much more the consciousness that men were saying: “Old George, what ’e says goes—knows a thing or two—George Pulcher!”
To pull the strings of ‘Jimmy’ Shrewin’s horse was a rich and subtle opportunity absorbingly improvable. But first one had to study the animal’s engagements, and, secondly, to gauge that unknown quantity, her ‘form.’ To make anything of her this year they must ‘get about it.’ That young ‘toff,’ her previous owner, had, of course, flown high, entering her for classic races, high-class handicaps, neglecting the rich chances of lesser occasions.
Third to Referee in the three-year-old race at Sandown Spring—two heads—was all that was known of her, and now they had given her seven two in the Cambridgeshire. She might have a chance, and again she might not. He sat two long evenings with ‘Jimmy’ in the little private room off the bar, deliberating this grave question.
‘Jimmy’ inclined to the bold course. He kept saying: “The mare’s a flyer, George—she’s the ’ell of a flyer!”
“Wait till she’s been tried,” said the oracle.
Had Polman anything that would give them a line?
Yes, he had The Shirker (named with that irony which appeals to the English), one of the most honest four-year-olds that ever looked through bridle, who had run up against almost every animal of mark—the one horse that Polman never interfered with, or interrupted in his training lest he should run all the better; who seldom won, but was almost always placed—the sort of horse that handicappers pivot on.
“But,” said Pulcher, “try her with The Shirker, and the first stable money will send her up to tens. That ’orse is so darned regular. We’ve got to throw a bit of dust first, ‘Jimmy.’ I’ll go over and see Polman.”
In ‘Jimmy’s’ withered chest a faint resentment rose—it wasn’t George’s horse; but it sank again beneath his friend’s bulk and reputation.
The ‘bit of dust’ was thrown at the ordinary hour of exercise over the Long Mile on the last day of August—the five-year-old Hangman carrying eight stone seven, the three-year-old Parrot seven stone five; what Calliope was carrying nobody but Polman knew. The forethought of George Pulcher had secured the unofficial presence of the Press. The instructions to the boy on Calliope were to be there at the finish if he could, but on no account to win. ‘Jimmy’ and George Pulcher had come out over night. They sat together in the dog-cart by the clump of bushes which marked the winning-post, with Polman on his cob on the far side.
By a fine, warm light the three horses were visible to the naked eye in the slight dip down by the start. And, through the glasses, invested in now that he had a horse, ‘Jimmy’ could see every movement of his mare with her blazed face—rather on her toes, like the bright chestnut and ‘bit o’ blood’ she was. He had a pit-patting in his heart, and his lips were tight-pressed. Suppose she was no good after all, and that young ‘Cocoon’ had palmed him off a pup! But mixed in with his financial fear was an anxiety more intimate, as if his own value were at stake.
From George Pulcher came an almost excited gurgle.
“See the tout! See ’im behind that bush. Thinks we don’t know ’e’s there, wot oh!”
‘Jimmy’ bit into his cheroot. “They’re running,” he said.
Rather wide, the black Hangman on the far side, Calliope in the middle, they came sweeping up the Long Mile. ‘Jimmy’ held his tobaccoed breath. The mare was going freely—a length or two behind—making up her ground! Now for it!
Ah! she ’ad The ’Angman beat, and ding-dong with this Parrot! It was all he could do to keep from calling out. With a rush and a cludding of hoofs they passed—the blazed nose just behind The Parrot’s bay nose—dead heat all but, with The Hangman beaten a good length!
“There ’e goes, Jimmy! See the blank scuttlin’ down the ’ill like a blinkin’ rabbit. That’ll be in to-morrow’s paper, that trial will. Ah! but ’ow to read it—that’s the point.”
The horses had been wheeled and were sidling back; Polman was going forward on his cob.
‘Jimmy’ jumped down. Whatever that fellow had to say, he meant to hear. It was his horse! Narrowly avoiding the hoofs of his hot, fidgeting mare, he said sharply:
“What about it?”
Polman never looked you in the face; his speech came as if not intended to be heard by anyone:
“Tell Mr. Shrewin how she went.”
“Had a bit up my sleeve. If I’d hit her a smart one, I could ha’ landed by a length or more.”
“That so?” said ‘Jimmy’ with a hiss. “Well, don’t you hit her; she don’t want hittin’. You remember that.”
The boy said sulkily: “All right!”
“Take her home,” said Polman. Then, with that reflective averted air of his, he added: “She was carrying eight stone, Mr. Shrewin; you’ve got a good one there. She’s The Hangman at level weights.”
Something wild leaped up in ‘Jimmy’—The Hangman’s form unrolled itself before him in the air—he had a horse—he dam’ well had a horse!
IV
But how delicate is the process of backing your fancy! The planting of a commission—what tender and efficient work before it will flower! That sixth sense of the racing man, which, like the senses of savages in great forests, seizes telepathically on what is not there, must be dulled, duped, deluded.
George Pulcher had the thing in hand. One might have thought the gross man incapable of such a fairy touch, such power of sowing with one hand and reaping with the other. He intimated rather than asserted that Calliope and The Parrot were one and the same thing. “The Parrot,” he said, “couldn’t win with seven stone—no use thinkin’ of this Callĭōpe.”
Local opinion was the rock on which, like a great tactician, he built. So long as local opinion was adverse, he could dribble money on in London; the natural jump-up from every long shot taken was dragged back by the careful radiation of disparagement from the seat of knowledge.
‘Jimmy’ was the fly in his ointment of those balmy early weeks while snapping up every penny of long odds, before suspicion could begin to work from the persistence of enquiry. Half-a-dozen times he found the ‘little cuss within an ace of blowing the gaff on his own blinkin’ mare’; seemed unable to run his horse down; the little beggar’s head was swellin’! Once ‘Jimmy’ had even got up and gone out, leaving a gin and bitters untasted on the bar. Pulcher improved on his absence in the presence of a London tout.
“Saw the trial meself! Jimmy don’t like to think he’s got a stiff ’un.”
And next morning his London agent snapped up some thirty-threes again.
According to the trial the mare was The Hangman at seven stone two, and really hot stuff—a seven to one chance. It was none the less with a sense of outrage that, opening the Sporting Life on the last day of September, he found her quoted at 100—8. Whose work was this?
He reviewed the altered situation in disgust. He had invested about half the stable commission of three hundred pounds at an average of thirty to one, but, now that she had ‘come’ in the betting, he would hardly average tens with the rest. What fool had put his oar in?
He learned the explanation two days later. The rash, the unknown backer, was ‘Jimmy’! He had acted, it appeared, from jealousy; a bookmaker—it took one’s breath away!
“Backed her on your own just because that young ‘Cocoon’ told you he fancied her!”
‘Jimmy’ looked up from the table in his ‘office,’ where he was sitting in wait for the scanty custom of the Long Vacation.
“She’s not his horse,” he said sullenly. “I wasn’t going to have him get the cream.”
“What did you put on?” growled Pulcher.
“Took five hundred to thirty and fifteen twenties.”
“An’ see what it’s done—knocked the bottom out of the commission. Am I to take that fifty as part of it?”
‘Jimmy’ nodded.
“That leaves an ’undred to invest,” said Pulcher, somewhat mollified. He stood, with his mind twisting in his thick, still body. “It’s no good waitin’ now,” he said; “I’ll work the rest of the money on to-day. If I can average tens on the balance, we’ll ’ave six thousand three hundred to play with and the stakes. They tell me Jenning fancies this Diamond Stud of his. He ought to know the form with Callĭōpe, blast him! We got to watch that.”
They had! Diamond Stud, a four-year-old with eight stone two, was being backed as if the Cambridgeshire were over. From fifteens he advanced to sevens, thence to favouritism at fives. Pulcher bit on it. Jenning must know where he stood with Calliope! It meant—it meant she couldn’t win! The tactician wasted no time in vain regret. Establish Calliope in the betting and lay off! The time had come to utilise The Shirker.
It was misty on the Downs—fine weather mist of a bright October. The three horses became spectral on their way to the starting-point. Polman had thrown The Parrot in again, but this time he made no secret of the weights. The Shirker was carrying eight seven, Calliope eight, The Parrot seven stone.
Once more, in the cart, with his glasses sweeping the bright mist, ‘Jimmy’ had that pit-patting in his heart. Here they came! His mare leading—all riding hard—a genuine finish! They passed—The Shirker beaten a clear length, with the Parrot at his girth. Beside him in the cart, George Pulcher mumbled:
“She’s The Shirker at eight stone four, Jimmy!”
A silent drive back to the river inn, big with thought; a silent breakfast. Over a tankard at the close the oracle spoke.
“The Shirker, at eight stone four, is a good ’ot chance, but no cert, Jimmy. We’ll let ’em know this trial quite open, weights and all. That’ll bring her in the betting. And we’ll watch Diamond Stud. If he drops back we’ll know Jenning thinks he can’t beat us now. If Diamond Stud stands up we’ll know Jenning thinks he’s still got our mare safe. Then our line’ll be clear: we lay off the lot, pick up a thousand or so, and ’ave the mare in at a nice weight at Liverpool.”
‘Jimmy’s’ smudged-in eyes stared hungrily.
“How’s that?” he said. “Suppose she wins?”
“Wins! If we lay off the lot, she won’t win.”
“Pull her!”
George Pulcher’s voice sank half an octave with disgust.
“Pull her! Who talked of pullin’? She’ll run a bye, that’s all. We shan’t ever know whether she could ’a won or not.”
‘Jimmy’ sat silent; the situation was such as his life during sixteen years had waited for. They stood to win both ways with a bit of handling.
“Who’s to ride?” he said.
“Polman’s got a call on Docker. He can just ride the weight. Either way he’s good for us—strong finisher and a rare judge of distance; knows how to time things to a T. Win or not, he’s our man.”
‘Jimmy’ was deep in figures. Laying-off at sevens, they would still win four thousand and the stakes.
“I’d like a win,” he said.
“Ah!” said Pulcher. “But there’ll be twenty in the field, my son; no more uncertain race than that bally Cambridgeshire. We could pick up a thou. as easy as I pick up this pot. Bird in the ’and, Jimmy, and a good ’andicap in the bush. If she wins, she’s finished. Well, we’ll put this trial about and see ’ow Jenning pops.”
Jenning popped amazingly. Diamond Stud receded a point, then re-established himself at nine to two. Jenning was clearly not dismayed.
George Pulcher shook his head and waited, uncertain still which way to jump. Ironical circumstance decided him.
Term had begun; ‘Jimmy’ was busy at his seat of custom. By some miracle of guardianly intervention, young Colquhoun had not gone broke. He was ‘up’ again, eager to retrieve his reputation, and that little brute ‘Jimmy’ would not lay against his horse! He merely sucked-in his cheeks, and answered: “I’m not layin’ my own ’orse.” It was felt that he was not the man he had been; assertion had come into his manner, he was better dressed. Someone had seen him at the station looking quite a ‘toff’ in a blue box-cloth coat standing well out from his wisp of a figure, and with a pair of brown race-glasses slung over the shoulder. Altogether the ‘little brute was getting too big for his boots.’
And this strange improvement hardened the feeling that his horse was a real good thing. Patriotism began to burn in Oxford. Here was a ‘snip’ that belonged to them, as it were, and the money in support of it, finding no outlet, began to ball.
A week before the race—with Calliope at nine to one, and very little doing—young Colquhoun went up to town, taking with him the accumulated support of betting Oxford. That evening she stood at sixes. Next day the public followed on.
George Pulcher took advantage. In this crisis of the proceedings he acted on his own initiative. The mare went back to eights, but the deed was done. He had laid off the whole bally lot, including the stake money. He put it to ‘Jimmy’ that evening in a nutshell.
“We pick up a thousand, and the Liverpool as good as in our pocket. I’ve done worse.”
‘Jimmy’ grunted out: “She could ’a won.”
“Not she. Jenning knows—and there’s others in the race. This Wasp is goin’ to take a lot of catchin’, and Deerstalker’s not out of it. He’s a hell of a horse, even with that weight.”
Again ‘Jimmy’ grunted, slowly sucking down his gin and bitters. Sullenly he said:
“Well, I don’ want to put money in the pocket of young ‘Cocoon’ and his crowd. Like his impudence, backin’ my horse as if it was his own.”
“We’ll ’ave to go and see her run, Jimmy.”
“Not me,” said ‘Jimmy.’
“What! First time she runs! It won’t look natural.”
“No,” repeated ‘Jimmy.’ “I don’t want to see ’er beat.”
George Pulcher laid his hand on a skinny shoulder.
“Nonsense, Jimmy. You’ve got to, for the sake of your reputation. You’ll enjoy seein’ your mare saddled. We’ll go up over night. I shall ’ave a few pound on Deerstalker. I believe he can beat this Diamond Stud. And you leave Docker to me; I’ll ’ave a word with him at Gatwick to-morrow. I’ve known ’im since he was that ’igh; an’ ’e ain’t much more now.”
“All right!” growled ‘Jimmy.’
V
The longer you can bet on a race the greater its fascination. Handicappers can properly enjoy the beauty of their work; clubmen and oracles of the course have due scope for reminiscence and prophecy; bookmakers in lovely leisure can indulge a little their own calculated preferences, instead of being hurried to soulless conclusions by a half-hour’s market on the course; the professional backer has the longer in which to dream of his fortune made at last by some hell of a horse—spotted somewhere as interfered with, left at the post, running green, too fat, not fancied, backward—now bound to win this hell of a race. And the general public has the chance to read the horses’ names in the betting news for days and days; and what a comfort that is!
‘Jimmy’ Shrewin was not one of those philosophers who justify the great and growing game of betting on the ground that it improves the breed of an animal less and less in use. He justified it much more simply—he lived by it. And in the whole of his career of nearly twenty years since he made hole-and-corner books among the boys of London, he had never stood so utterly on velvet as that morning when his horse must win him five hundred pounds by merely losing. He had spent the night in London anticipating a fraction of his gains with George Pulcher at a music-hall. And, in a first-class carriage, as became an owner, he travelled down to Newmarket by an early special. An early special key turned in the lock of the carriage door, preserved their numbers at six, all professionals, with blank, rather rolling eyes, mouths shut or slightly fishy, ears to the ground; and the only natural talker a red-faced man, who had ‘been at it thirty years.’ Intoning the pasts and futures of this hell of a horse or that, even he was silent on the race in hand; and the journey was half over before the beauty of their own judgments loosened tongues thereon. George Pulcher started it.
“I fancy Deerstalker,” he said; “he’s a hell of a horse.”
“Too much weight,” said the red-faced man. “What about this Calliope?”
“Ah!” said Pulcher. “D’you fancy your mare, Jimmy?”
With all eyes turned on him, lost in his blue box-cloth coat, brown bowler, and cheroot smoke, ‘Jimmy’ experienced a subtle thrill. Addressing the space between the red-faced man and Pulcher, he said:
“If she runs up to ’er looks.”
“Ah!” said Pulcher, “she’s dark—nice mare, but a bit light and shelly.”
“Lopez out o’ Calendar,” muttered the red-faced man. “Lopez didn’t stay, but he was the hell of a horse over seven furlongs. The Shirker ought to ’ave told you a bit.”
‘Jimmy’ did not answer. It gave him pleasure to see the red-faced man’s eye trying to get past, and failing.
“Nice race to pick up. Don’t fancy the favourite meself; he’d nothin’ to beat at Ascot.”
“Jenning knows what he’s about,” said Pulcher.
Jenning! Before ‘Jimmy’s’ mind passed again that first sight of his horse, and the trainer’s smile, as if he—‘Jimmy’ Shrewin, who owned her—had been dirt. Tyke! To have the mare beaten by one of his! A deep, subtle vexation had oppressed him at times all these last days since George Pulcher had decided in favour of the mare’s running a bye. D——n George Pulcher! He took too much on himself! Thought he had ‘Jimmy’ Shrewin in his pocket! He looked at the block of crimson opposite. Aunt Sally! If George Pulcher could tell what was passing in his mind!
But driving up to the course he was not above sharing a sandwich and a flask. In fact, his feelings were unstable and gusty—sometimes resentment, sometimes the old respect for his friend’s independent bulk. The dignity of ownership takes long to establish itself in those who have been kicked about.
“All right with Docker,” murmured Pulcher, sucking at the wicker flask. “I gave him the office at Gatwick.”
“She could ’a won,” muttered ‘Jimmy.’
“Not she, my boy; there’s two at least can beat ’er.”
Like all oracles, George Pulcher could believe what he wanted to.
Arriving, they entered the grand-stand enclosure, and over the dividing railings ‘Jimmy’ gazed at the Cheap Ring, already filling-up with its usual customers. Faces, and umbrellas—the same old crowd. How often had he been in that Cheap Ring, with hardly room to move, seeing nothing, hearing nothing but “Two to one on the field!” “Two to one on the field!” “Threes Swordfish!” “Fives Alabaster!” “Two to one on the field!” Nothing but a sea of men like himself, and a sky overhead. He was not exactly conscious of criticism, only of a dull ‘Glad I’m shut of that lot’ feeling.
Leaving George Pulcher deep in conversation with a crony, he lighted a cheroot, and slipped out on to the course. He passed the Jockey Club enclosure. Some early ‘toffs’ were there in twos and threes, exchanging wisdom. He looked at them without envy or malice. He was an owner himself now, almost one of them in a manner of thinking. With a sort of relish he thought of how his past life had circled round those ‘toffs,’ slippery, shadowlike, kicked about; and now he could get up on the Downs away from ‘toffs,’ George Pulcher, all that crowd, and smell the grass, and hear the bally larks, and watch his own mare gallop!
They were putting the numbers up for the first race. Queer not to be betting, not to be touting round; queer to be giving it a rest! Utterly familiar with those names on the board, he was utterly unfamiliar with the shapes they stood for.
‘I’ll go and see ’em come out of the paddock,’ he thought, and moved on, skimpy in his bell-shaped coat and billycock with flattened brim. The clamour of the Rings rose behind him while he was entering the paddock.
Very green, very peaceful, there; not many people, yet! Three horses in the second race were being led slowly in a sort of winding ring; and men were clustering round the further gate where the horses would come out. ‘Jimmy’ joined them, sucking at his cheroot. They were a picture! Damn it! he didn’t know but that ’orses laid over men! Pretty creatures!
One by one they passed out of the gate, a round dozen. Selling platers, but pictures for all that!
He turned back towards the horses being led about; and the old instinct to listen took him close to little groups. Talk was all of the big race. From a tall ‘toff’ he caught the word Calliope.
“Belongs to a bookie, they say.”
Bookie! Why not? Wasn’t a bookie as good as any other? Ah! and sometimes better than these young snobs with everything to their hand! A bookie—well, what chance had he ever had?
A big brown horse came by.
“That’s Deerstalker,” he heard the ‘toff’ say.
‘Jimmy’ gazed at George Pulcher’s fancy with a sort of hostility. Here came another—Wasp, six stone ten, and Deerstalker nine stone—top and bottom of the race!
‘My ’orse’d beat either o’ them,’ he thought stubbornly. ‘Don’t like that Wasp.’
The distant roar was hushed. They were running in the first race! He moved back to the gate. The quick clamour rose and dropped, and here they came—back into the paddock, darkened with sweat, flanks heaving a little!
‘Jimmy’ followed the winner, saw the jockey weigh in.
“What jockey’s that?” he asked.
“That? Why, Docker!”
‘Jimmy’ stared. A short, square, bow-legged figure, with a hardwood face! Waiting his chance, he went up to him and said:
“Docker, you ride my ’orse in the big race.”
“Mr. Shrewin?”
“The same,” said ‘Jimmy.’ The jockey’s left eyelid drooped a little. Nothing responded in ‘Jimmy’s’ face. “I’ll see you before the race,” he said.
Again the jockey’s eyelid wavered, he nodded and passed on.
‘Jimmy’ stared at his own boots—they struck him suddenly as too yellow and not at the right angle. But why, he couldn’t say.
More horses now—those of the first race being unsaddled, clothed, and led away. More men—three familiar figures: young ‘Cocoon’ and two others of his Oxford customers.
‘Jimmy’ turned sharply from them. Stand their airs?—not he! He had a sudden sickish feeling. With a win, he’d have been a made man—on his own! Blast George Pulcher and his caution! To think of being back in Oxford with those young bloods jeering at his beaten horse! He bit deep into the stump of his cheroot, and suddenly came on Jenning standing by a horse with a star on its bay forehead. The trainer gave him no sign of recognition, but signed to the boy to lead the horse into a stall, and followed, shutting the door. It was exactly as if he had said: ‘Vermin about!’
An evil little smile curled ‘Jimmy’s’ lips. The tyke!
The horses for the second race passed out of the paddock gate, and he turned to find his own. His ferreting eyes soon sighted Polman. What the cat-faced fellow knew, or was thinking, ‘Jimmy’ could not tell. Nobody could tell.
“Where’s the mare?” he said.
“Just coming round.”
No mistaking her; fine as a star; shiny-coated, sinuous, her blazed face held rather high! Who said she was ’shelly’? She was a picture! He walked a few paces close to the boy.
“That’s Calliope.... H’m!... Nice filly!... Looks fit.... Who’s this James Shrewin?... What’s she at?... I like her looks.”
His horse! Not a prettier filly in the world!
He followed Polman into her stall to see her saddled. In the twilight there he watched her toilet; the rub-over; the exact adjustments; the bottle of water to the mouth; the buckling of the bridle—watched her head high above the boy keeping her steady with gentle pulls of a rein in each hand held out a little wide, and now and then stroking her blazed nose; watched her pretence of nipping at his hand: he watched the beauty of her exaggerated in this half-lit isolation away from the others, the life and litheness in her satin body, the wilful expectancy in her bright soft eyes.
Run a bye! This bit o’ blood—this bit o’ fire! This horse of his! Deep within that shell of blue box-cloth against the stall partition a thought declared itself: ‘I’m —— if she shall! She can beat the lot! And she’s —— well going to!’
The door was thrown open, and she led out. He moved alongside. They were staring at her, following her. No wonder! She was a picture, his horse—his! She had gone to ‘Jimmy’s’ head.
They passed Jenning with Diamond Stud waiting to be mounted. ‘Jimmy’ shot him a look. Let the —— wait!
His mare reached the palings and was halted. ‘Jimmy’ saw the short square figure of her jockey, in the new magenta cap and jacket—his cap, his jacket! Beautiful they looked, and no mistake!
“A word with you,” he said.
The jockey halted, looked quickly round.
“All right, Mr. Shrewin. No need.”
‘Jimmy’s’ eyes smouldered at him; hardly moving his lips, he said, intently: “You —— well don’t! You’ll —— well ride her to win. Never mind him! If you don’t, I’ll have you off the Turf. Understand me! You’ll —— well ride ’er to win.”
The jockey’s jaw dropped.
“All right, Mr. Shrewin.”
“See it is,” said ‘Jimmy’ with a hiss....
“Mount jockeys!”
He saw magenta swing into the saddle. And suddenly, as if smitten with the plague, he scuttled away.
VI
He scuttled to where he could see them going down—seventeen. No need to search for his colours; they blazed, like George Pulcher’s countenance, or a rhododendron bush in sunlight, above that bright chestnut with the white nose, curvetting a little as she was led past.
Now they came cantering—Deerstalker in the lead.
“He’s a hell of a horse, Deerstalker!” said someone behind.
‘Jimmy’ cast a nervous glance around. No sign of George Pulcher!
One by one they cantered past, and he watched them with a cold feeling in his stomach. Still unused to sight of the creatures out of which he made his living, they all seemed to him hells of horses!
The same voice said:
“New colours! Well, you can see ’em, and the mare too. She’s a showy one. Calliope? She’s goin’ back in the bettin’, though.”
‘Jimmy’ moved up through the Ring.
“Four to one on the field!” “Six Deerstalker!” “Sevens Magistrate!” “Ten to one Wasp!” “Ten to one Calliope!” “Four to one Diamond Stud—Four to one on the field!”
Steady as a rock, that horse of Jenning, and his own going back!
“Twelves Calliope!” he heard, just as he reached the stand. The telepathic genius of the Ring missed nothing—almost!
A cold shiver went through him. What had he done by his words to Docker? Spoiled the golden egg laid so carefully? But perhaps she couldn’t win even if they let her! He began to mount the stand, his mind in the most acute confusion.
A voice said: “Hullo, Jimmy! Is she going to win?”
One of his young Oxford sparks was jammed against him on the stairway!
He raised his lip in a sort of snarl, and, huddling himself, slipped through and up ahead. He came out and edged in close to the stairs where he could get play for his glasses. Behind him one of those who improve the shining hour among backers cut off from opportunity was intoning the odds a point shorter than below. “Three to one on the field!” “Fives Deerstalker!” “Eight to one Wasp!”
“What price Calliope?” said ‘Jimmy’ sharply.
“Hundred to eight.”
“Done!” Handing him the eight, he took the ticket. Behind him the man’s eyes moved fishily, and he resumed his incantation.
“Three to one on the field!... Three to one on the field! Six to one Magistrate!”
On the wheeling bunch of colours at the start ‘Jimmy’ trained his glasses. Something had broken clean away and come half the course—something in yellow.
“Eights Magistrate. Nine to one Magistrate,” drifted up.
So they had spotted that! Precious little they didn’t spot!
Magistrate was round again, and being ridden back. ‘Jimmy’ rested his glasses a moment, and looked down. Swarms in the Cheap Ring, Tattersalls, the stands—a crowd so great you could lose George Pulcher in it. Just below a little man was making silent, frantic signals with his arms to someone across in the Cheap Ring. ‘Jimmy’ raised his glasses. In line now—magenta third from the rails!
“They’re off!” The hush, you could cut it with a knife! Something in green away on the right—Wasp! What a bat they were going! And a sort of numbness in ‘Jimmy’s’ mind cracked suddenly; his glasses shook; his thin, weasley face became suffused and quivered. Magenta—magenta—two from the rails! He could make no story of the race such as he would read in to-morrow’s paper—he could see nothing but magenta.
Out of the dip now, and coming fast—green still leading—something in violet, something in tartan, closing.
“Wasp’s beat!” “The favourite—the favourite wins!” “Deerstalker—Deerstalker wins! What’s that in pink on the rails?”
It was his in pink on the rails! Behind him a man went suddenly mad.
“Deerstalker! Come on with ’im, Stee! Deerstalker’ll win—Deerstalker’ll win!”
‘Jimmy’ sputtered venomously: “Will ’e? Will ’e?”
Deerstalker and his own out from the rest—opposite the Cheap Ring—neck and neck—Docker riding like a demon.
“Deerstalker! Deerstalker!” “Calliope wins! She wins!”
Gawd! His horse! They flashed past—fifty yards to go, and not a head between ’em!
“Deerstalker! Deerstalker!” “Calliope!”
He saw his mare shoot out—she’d won!
With a little queer sound he squirmed and wriggled on to the stairs. No thoughts while he squeezed, and slid, and hurried—only emotion—out of the Ring, away to the paddock. His horse!
Docker had weighed in when he reached the mare. All right! He passed with a grin. ‘Jimmy’ turned almost into the body of Polman standing like an image.
“Well, Mr. Shrewin,” he said to nobody, “she’s won.”
‘Damn you!’ thought ‘Jimmy.’ ‘Damn the lot of you!’ And he went up to his mare. Quivering, streaked with sweat, impatient of the gathering crowd, she showed the whites of her eyes when he put his hand up to her nose.
“Good girl!” he said, and watched her led away.
‘Gawd! I want a drink!’ he thought.
Gingerly, keeping a sharp lookout for Pulcher, he returned to the stand to get it, and to draw his hundred. But up there by the stairs the discreet fellow was no more. On the ticket was the name O. H. Jones, and nothing else. ‘Jimmy’ Shrewin had been welshed! He went down at last in a bad temper. At the bottom of the staircase stood George Pulcher. The big man’s face was crimson, his eyes ominous. He blocked ‘Jimmy’ into a corner.
“Ah!” he said. “You little crow! What the ’ell made you speak to Docker?”
‘Jimmy’ grinned. Some new body within him stood there defiant. “She’s my ’orse,” he said.
“You —— Gawd-forsaken rat! If I ’ad you in a quiet spot, I’d shake the life out of you!”
‘Jimmy’ stared up, his little spindle legs apart, like a cock-sparrow confronting an offended pigeon.
“Go ’ome,” he said, “George Pulcher; and get your mother to mend your socks. You don’t know ’ow! Thought I wasn’t a man, did you? Well, now you —— well know I am. Keep off my ’orse in future.”
Crimson rushed up on crimson in Pulcher’s face; he raised his heavy fists. ‘Jimmy’ stood, unmoving, his little hands in his bell-coat pockets, his withered face upraised. The big man gulped as if swallowing back the tide of blood; his fists edged forward and then—dropped.
“That’s better,” said ‘Jimmy,’ “hit one of your own size.”
Emitting a deep growl, George Pulcher walked away.
“Two to one on the field—I’ll back the field—Two to one on the field.” “Threes Snowdrift—Fours Iron Dook.”
‘Jimmy’ stood a moment mechanically listening to the music of his life; then, edging out, he took a fly and was driven to the station.
All the way up to town he sat chewing his cheroot with the glow of drink inside him, thinking of that finish, and of how he had stood up to George Pulcher. For a whole day he was lost in London, but Friday saw him once more at his seat of custom in the ‘Corn.’ Not having laid against his horse, he had had a good race in spite of everything; yet, the following week, uncertain into what further quagmires of quixotry she might lead him, he sold Calliope.
But for years betting upon horses that he never saw, underground like a rat, yet never again so accessible to the kicks of fortune, or so prone before the shafts of superiority, he would think of the Downs with the blinkin’ larks singin’, and talk of how once he—had a horse.
1923.