THE DAY IS OVER.

Auckland Star, Volume LVII, Issue 134, 8 June 1926, Page 10

THE DAY IS OVER.

HOME FROM THE RACES,

IN THE RAILWAY CARRIAGES,

The races over, the crowds pour through the gates from the course and hurriedly make for the trams, buses, motor cars and trains that will bear them away from the scene of their day's sport. It has been a long, tiring day. Human nature will out, and the faces are the best indexes to the feelings.

Some there are who hurry along in close conversation, laughing and smiling—they have been lucky. There are those who hurry, too, but whose set faces and glum looks are pronounced —- they have been unlucky. Into the various conveyances they pour, running for trams and buses and trains, sorting out what they prefer as a means of quick transit to the city. On the trains there is standing room only. Men, women and children, the poor and the rich, the lowly and the high rubbing shoulders in the crowded carriages. There is no subdued hum. of voices there. Loud voiced men and women tell the world of their fortune or of their misfortune, discussing what they should have done, and if only they had done this and that. The same old story, aimost as old as the oldest story the world has ever known.

Sitting alone is a man. He holds in his hand a well worn race book. His hands tremble perceptibly. His face is drawn and set. Page" after page he pores over, and now and again he makes a pencil mark. He is "broke." The "tote" has cleaned him out, and he smiles ruefully. Then a woman's voice rings out: "People are silly to go to the races and lose .all their money," she informs everyone with a decisive"toss of her head. A man in the seat opposite glances up from a book. "When people are winning they don't think it's silly. It's only when their money goes into the 'tote , to stay that they think that way." His quiet, cultured voice contrasted strangely with the raucous tone of the woman's and attracted attention, but he said no more and buried his face in his'book. The woman looked at him for a moment: Yes, I suppose you are right," she said. Then a boy, poorly clad, pinched of face, chimed in: I told you to back mother, it was paying a good price." And so they go on. Races and "ifs " and many seem scarcely to possess a penny to bless themselves with. Uncomfortably perched on the arm of a seat was a man whose <*rey beard denoted the passing of three score years or more. An old pipe was clenched between his teeth. He looked miserable. His clothes were such as to give the impression that they had been old many years ago. His gnarled hands grasped a knotted stick. His boots were the worse for constant wear. How could he afford the races? Maybe his clothes were but a secondary consideration. The train drew near the Auckland station. A hush settled over the passengers. As it pulled up they made for the exits. Into the lighted area they hurried—down the platform they pushed their way and out again into the city streets to start for their homes A sadder, and maybe wiser people, and yet at the next meeting they will all be there again—happy, expectant, optimistic—until the day is done. Surely the most optimistic of all is the racegoer ?