MY INVITATION

Manawatu Standard, Volume XLVI, Issue 26, 30 December 1925, Page 7

MY INVITATION

TO THE SPORT OF KINGS. A NOVICE AT ELLERSLIE. All the principles of my austere and religious upbringing have been shattered. I have attended a race meeting (writes “Maskee” in the Auckland Star). Simpson was responsible for my departure from grace. He had talked assiduously of the glamour and fascination of "Cup Day,” he had informed me that all the very best people foregathered for the event; and he had even assured me that he would procure tickets. Then even the prickings of a conscience availed not, and I yielded. "Just a day on the green,” I remark.ed somewhat guiltily to the wife as I prepared to depart on the Saturday morning. "But you arc going without your bowls,” she said. "Er—l’m not competing. It’s a big event, and lam merely a spectator.” And I consoled myself with the fact that the statement was not lying, but diplomacy. Simpson met me at the post office, where he formed one of an earnest crowd all studying little booklets. “Sorry, old man,” he said, “but I could not get those tickets. We’ll have to pay.” I gathered from his subsequent explanation that the obscure authorities controlling Ellerslie meetings issue to a select group called members a certain number—almost a minus quantity—of complimentary passes. Then another large group, somewhere approaching the sixteenth power of the original one, start in pestering pursuit of the originals to secure that greatest of all racing favours, a free ticket, more particularly a lady’s one. Seemingly the racing public doesn’t mind losing many of its pounds in a flutter, but it strives strenuously to avoid paying half a guinea for the pleasure of doing so. We boarded a tram, and my education commenced. I met moro fanciers than one over sees at a poultry show. People swung with one hand grasping a strap and the other a race card, and "fancied” this, that or the other weird name for each event under discussion. To a complete stranger Simpson expounded on "form” almost as lucidly as I could discourse on the transmigration of souls. Straphangers released their grips and swayed perilously as they used stubby pencils to make strange marginal hieroglyphics in their little books. So we reached Ellerslie, and, purchasing tickets, were duly turnstiled with a seething mass through one fence. We drifted forward on one arm of a forking stream, and again wo were turnstiled, but this time only with the really nice folk. I stepped into what had been declaimed a resort of sinners, and beheld a paradise wherein there was a rustling that was not of wings.

"Let’s look at those gorgeous waterlilies,” I urged. ‘‘Hang the water-lilies!” was the reply. "Quick, or we’ll miss the parade ror the first race. "Got the scratchings,” he said tersely. 1 felt no sign of irritation myself, and was about to sympathise, when again he hustled me along, with "Now i must get some information.” Brazenly he approached man after man. Some had quaint little cardboard tokens fastened to their buttomlioles. I hud heard of a secret society called bookmakers, and asked if this was part of their insignia. Simpson laughed for the first time that day. “Members!” he said laconically. "They are the ones who get the really good tips. You see, the way to make money on a course is to secure all the good information you can, and then sift it thoroughly.” "Quite a riddle,” I commented facetiously, but Simpson failed to connect. it was on the Cup itself that I fluttered. Simpson had adjured me to "put a quid on Haze.” He said he was working on both form and information.I went to one of the shrines and peeped in at the little window. There I saw Miss Allenby, a friend of the wife’s, fussing away at a strange machine. "Hello, Helen!” I cried cheerfully. She glanced up, nodded curtly, and started to do card-producing tricks with the machine. It was so fascinating that I gazed till a punch in the ribs awoke me. “Shake it up, old man. Do you want to buy the ‘bloomin’ tote.” A pretty young lady stood waiting my instructions, and I realised the objective of my visit. “I want a ticket on—er—‘Mist,’ ” I ventured. "What number?” snapped the girl. "Oh, only one—one on er ‘Eog’ I think it was.” "There isn’t any horse named Fog.” "Well, it’s something to do with clouds.” "Haze!” growled a voice from behind me. "Aes, that’s it,” I stammered. "Five—one,” snapped the lady, and shot a little ticket at me. I waistcoated it, and staircased to see the greatest event of Auckland’s year, the running of the Cup. 1 really didn’t see it at all. I had an initial thrill at prominent colours I had been told to watch. Then pandemonium overwhelmed me, and when i came to, Haze was where a haze usually is—in the distance. Folk were shouting "Rapine 1 Rapine!” "And plunder,” I added, thinking of my lost note and Simpson’s rotten sifting. Yet I had become a patron of the turf. A dissatisfied elation carried me through the rest of the day. I jauntily informed friends who expressed surprise at seeing me at Ellerslie that I had picked one or two, but I paid no more visits to the shrine till the last race. The memory of a note of mine within the tote rankled in me. I struggled with temptation, and again fell. 1 still possessed a treasured sovereign, relic of the visit of the fleet. A friend had said, "Back 22, it’s worth a go: Friedlander’s horse; an outsider.” Simpson had told me that we were on the "inside,” and doubting if an outsider could be backed there, I timidly approached the tote at another window, asked for a ticket on 22, and handed in my sovereign. The girl smiled at the gold. “Getting low,” she remarked, passing the ticket. “Certainly not. I think racing’s quite respectable,” I answered, wondering why she shrieked with laughter as I walked off. I watched the race with Simpson, not confiding to him my final investment. Lady Ridicule won; so did Simpson. Then he turned to the dividend board. "Great Scott!” he exclaimed. "Look at the second divvy.” "What horse was it?” I asked, feverishly. "Number 22,” ho snapped, preparing to rush off to the tote. "Look!” I cried, triumphantly, unwaistcoating the fortunate number. Simpson gazed, muttered one word of four letters, and rushed me round to the pay-out. "I don’t suppose you could let me have a sovereign,” I whispered as my turn came to receive a cascade of notes. "This isn’t the Royal Mint,” was the only response.