MAKING A FAVOURITE

Evening Star, Issue 21819, 7 September 1934, Page 5

MAKING A FAVOURITE

AUCTION OF BOOKMAKERS | It is extraordinary what yon can fail to notice if you are not looking for it, writes Charles Graves in the ‘ Sunday Graphic.’ For three years two or three times a week I have taken a taxi off a rank in Wellington street, Strand, without realising that the reason for the rank was the elderly Victorian stone building opposite it. _ This which looks like a bank, is the Victoria Club, an institution which figures in the newspapers for some days before every big race. For it is in the large, rather dingy billiard room that the card is called and the vast bulk of ante-post betting is stabilised before the running of the twenty leading horse races of the year. Throughout the flat racing season horses are backed to win at. least £400,000 each week. The primary object of the club is to enable bookmakers to settle their vast accounts between themselves on Mondays. and to start a market for the big races. At the call-over the layers na- 1 turally become backers as well. The result is that in the past quarter of a century literally, millions of pounds have been wagered 'in this biege-coloured room, with its bar at one end. its green baize table, nearby where members lunch hurriedly, its faded pictures, and its one large billiard table. So great is the amount of betting—or, shall we say, investing—that when Some years ago a certain horse in the Lincolnshire Handicap was backed to win £IIO,OOO, it nevertheless started at 20 to 1. But how is the market made, and what happens when the card is called? For a big race like the Derby, 200 or 300 of the 500 members crowd into the billiard room. Mr Art Gasini then “calls” the card. Art Casini, who looks like a stokebroker, wears hornrimmed spectacles, and has a quiet, conversational voice. LIKE AN AUCTIONEER. At the appointed hour (12.30) ha stands up at the far end of the room, and calls out the name _of the horse which he presumes is going to be the favourite, just as though he were an auctioneer. This is how it goes. “ What offers c*n anyone make for Colombo? ” A voice calls out; “ Seven hundred to four.” (Four means four hundred.! This is followed by another voice: “ I’ll lay three and a-half to two,” and in a few moments Art Casini has £I,BOO to £BOO on offer. “Is there any better offer? ” he in- • quires. “ I’ll lay two hundred to one, 1 ' “ I’ll lay two hundred to one.” Suddenly somebody calls out: “I’ll take all three bets.” A lull ensues. Then another bookmaker shouts: “I’ll lay seven and a-half to four.” A few more offers come along eventually. Art Casini himself does business on his own ' account, and says: “ I’ll take two hun- . dred to one hundred.” There is then. s another lull. . Art Casini then bangs his hammer, the best offer being seven to lour, which no one will take. Then Umidwar is called. There are shouts of “ Seven hundred to one,” “Fifteen hundred to two,” “ Seven and a-half to one,” “ I’ll take a thousand to a hundred and twenty. “ I’ll lay it to you.” Everybody jumps in with offers and acceptances. It is noticeable that all the bets go through Art Casini. The rule is that no bookmaker may deny any offer he makes unless he withdraws it before it lias been taken up. The reason for this is that someone might want to back a horse, and in order to get a good price might offer a big bet against it with the intention of pretending that this bet has already been accepted if_ a genuine layer is prepared to take it. In consequence each bet is allocated; in. fact, confirmed by Art Casini, so that there is no possibility of bluff offer# made to get a good price. In the ordinary course of events only offers for wins are made at the Victoria Club, though on the final night before a big race like the Derby both wins and places are, so to speak, auctioned in this manner. ■ Another demonstration of the amount of money wagered at the Victoria Club is provided by the scene the other day when a famous bookmaker said: “I’ll lay ten thousand to eight Colombo.”Hardly were the words out of lifts mouth when one bookmaker called out: “ I’ll take seven ” (seven thousand), and another shouted: “I’ll have the rest.” Sometimes the calling of the card will last more than an hour. The minimum wager is ten pounds by a backer to win himself, let us say, one hundred. ODD RESULTS. • Sometimes there are odd results from the laying of heavy odds against complete outsiders. Miss Dorothy Paget’s horse Tuppence is a famous case in point. • He started, very properly, at 200 to 1 against. Then some imp induced the public to back it on the day, of the race at this price, which had been duly printed in the morning papers. Miracles frequently happen in racing, and so the bookmakers had to rush madly about to cover any possible losses. The result was that on the day of the Derby Tuppence had tumbled in price to three or four to win. It was still just as certain to lose as before, but tba bookmakers had to protect themselves. Except for freak occasions, when tha public suddenly decide to back soma horse because of its silly - name. 95 per cent, of the prices reigning before tha off are the result of betting transaetions at the Victoria Club; Upstairs there is a similarly-shaped room with eight card tables, pale green walls, mahogany chairs, glass mirrors, and two telephone boxes, which is almost as exciting as the dingy billiard room. This is the room where the settling takes place. It is an extraordinary sight on Mondays from 11 o’clock to see bookmaker# coming in with wallets bulging with thousands of pounds’ worth of notes. Others settle by cheque, and it naturally listens that one cheque may pas# through half a dozen different hands when one bookmaker owes another who owes another who owes another, and so on in a vicious circle back to the original bookmaker.