ANECDOTES OF SPORT AND SPORTSMEN.

Otago Witness, Issue 1893, 2 March 1888, Page 24

ANECDOTES OF SPORT AND SPORTSMEN.

(Licensed Victuallers' Gazette.) Born to lie a Bookie.

Among "the Leviathan" bookmakers of the past no one was more famous than John Jackson, or Jock o' Fairfield, as he was usually called. For many years, beginning with "tho forties," there was not a racecourse in England that did not resound to his stentorian lungs, which overpowered every other voice, and rolled over down and heath like a peal of thunder. From earliest youth he had an insatiable taste for betting, and when a mere boy borrowed a fiver to plunge on a great cricket match, and came back with his principal and 40 half-crowns to boot. By the time he was 22 he was worth £10,000, got, not out of plunging of course, but bookmaking. But for him Henry Steele, another "Loviathan," might have been a razor grinder all his life. Steele, who had a great taste for the turf, while yet a workman in a Sheffield factory, went up to Jackson at one of the Doncaster meetings, and, pointing to a horse the bookmaker was regarding with particular attention, asked : " Will he win ?" " Yes ; back him," was the laconic reply. The Sheffielder did, and won a good sum. The next time the two met Steele presented his tipster with a case of razors as a mark of gratitude. So pleased was Jackeon with the little gift that, after some conversation with the donor, finding him a shrewd fellow, he offered to lend him £500 to start in the bookmaking line. The offer was gratefully accepted, and that was the foundation of Steele's fortune. Those who only saw Jock o' Fairfield in his_ latter days, when consumption had wasted his once brawny form to a mere shadow and toned the stentor voice to a whisper, could form no picture of the Herculean Yorkshires an who was the life and soul of every SDort, whether a horserace, a cockfight, or a little mill. But 'tis the pace that kills.

Double Dealing.

Horse dealers, as a rule, would do honour to a school of Jesuits, so ingenious are their prevarications. The famous wit, Lord Alvanly, used to tell the story of a friend of his, a barrister, who bought a horse to go on circuit, with a warranty that he was quiet to ride and drive, and sound of wind and limb. The first time the purchaser mounted the animal he could net induce him to stir a step — neither whip nor spur could move him. In a furious passion the barrister took him back, and claimed the forfeit of the warranty. The dealer calmly denied any responsibility. "Did you find him restive or vicious?" he asked. " Restive 1 D— n him 1 He was as immovable as though he had been a wpoden

horse," was the reply. " Did you find anything wrong with his legs or his chest?" again demanded the dealer. "No; but he wouldn't go." I never warranted or even said he would,'' was the cool response. " I'll give you back £5 [the victim had paid £30] in exchange for the horse, as you don't seem to like him." Goodness knows how many times the crafty one had sold that animal. Equally shrewd was the Irish dealer who sold a mare as sound of wind and limb and without a fault. When the purchaser got the poor beast home he found she was totally blind of one eye, and could scarcely see out of the other. " Did you not warrant her without a fault T demanded the victim. " Sure and I did, and thrue it is." " What ! don't you call blindness a fault ?" " Sure and I don't," replied Paddy indignantly ; " it's the poor craytlmr's misfortin', and not her fault.

Terrible Truths.

The father of the late Earl Dudley and Ward, though a gallant sportsman in his time, during his latter years became very much what his son did after him — a "lean and slippered pantaloon." But that was not all; he had contracted a habit, a very awkward one, of thinking aloud and unconsciously expressing his private opinion of people before their faces. He would enter the drawing room in his own house where his guests were assembled, and without addressing any one, proceed to count them in a sort of stage whisper, and comment upon certain persons in the following style : " One, two— ah, there's the Colonel with his mulberry nose; how he must drink to keep up the colour! Three, four— Jones here, eh; don't seem to have taken to heart much that affair about his wife ; poor devil, how I did laugh when I heard about it 1 Five, six — there's old silly Billy, Seven, eight — I wonder whether that fellow's paid for his wig yet ; Truefit said he should sue him. Oh, the Baronet I If his lady only knew about that little French girl, what a row there would be I Ah, how-de-do, Rogers how well you're looking. Humph, like a corpse that's been buried a week and then dug up again." And all these asides were perfectly audible to every person near him. He was once dining with William IV and his Queen, and quite foregetful of court etiquette, he again and again recommended her Majesty to partake of a certain dish— "lt is excellent," he said. " I am glad you like it, my lord," answered the Queen, " this is the third time you have remarked upon it." "D — n the woman, so it is," ejaculated Dudley in one of his stage asides, that, to the horror of the guests, could be heard all round the table.

The Veteran

The following description of Jem Mace by a Frenchman who, some 30 years ago, was taking notes upon the manners and customs of Britain, is worth preserving : "Jem Mace, like many others of the fraternity, combines the functions of publican and pugilist. He is at this moment the rising star of the Prize Ring. As present champion of England, he succeeded the terrible Tom Sayers, who is still alive, and as a sign of his dignity he has a right to wear the magic belt, which he gained by the sweat of his brow, and which is the pride, ambition, and aim of the athletic career. Jem Mace was born in Norfolk, and if I may credit certain reports, which are fully confirmed by his features and the colour of his face, he lived for a long time with a tribe of gipsies, and visited with them the green fields and rough seashore. Of whatever nature was the cloud that covered his earlier years, it is certain that Mace only appeared in the ring a few years ago. Up to that time he contented himself with visiting fairs and races, where, like many other pugilists, he put on the boxing gloves, and gave the provincials a performance of the noble art of self-defence. Encouraged by this, he figured at last in a real fight, and since then his exploits have made a sensation in the sporting world. However, it was not to learn the history of his prowess that I entered at my risk and peril this tavern ; it was to see the pugilist at home— the lion in his den. Altogether this lion appears to me to be tolerably tame ; in his parlour Jem Mace is an ordinary publican, who induces his customers to drink, watching the details of his trade with the aid of his wife, and, to use a favourite expression of the English, ' likes to talk with sinners.' "

So the World Wags.

Now that the hedges and woodlands are stripped for business, the cry of the hounds mingling with the " gone away," " tally-ho," " tantivy," and " hark, forrard " of the huntsman will, to the ears of lovers of the sport, sound like the music of the spheres. This is not so wonderful either when it is rernembeied there are in England, including her Majesty's, 12 packs of staghounds, containing between them 300 couples, and of packs of foxhounds 15G, with nearly 6000 couples of hounds. This, again, is irrespective of 118 packs of harriers and beagles with 1770 couples, so that it may be easily imagined how so many Englishmen follow the fox with feelings of elation, still greater when under the influence of a southerly wind and a cloudy sky. The gun, the hunter, and the steeplechaser have had a great deal to do with making England what she is, and it must frequently have puzzled the French during the Peninsula war to see, whenever an opportunity offered, English officers careering over the country with their dogs apparently after nothing, for the Gauls could nob conjure up in their minds such a thing as a drag-hunt. But we doubt if half as many obstacles existed to carrying out a drag-hunt inside the lines of Torres Vedras as there were at Oxford when Dr Jennings was Master of Balliol College, for undergraduates to turn out in their hunting suits to • See the old fox steal away through the gap, Whilst the huntsman cheered the hounds with his

old velvet cap. Nothing, in fact, could restrain such men as the late George Lawrence, author of " Guy Livingstone," the present Duke of Westminster, and Sir Henry Dcs Vceux from hunting with Mr Drake or with the Heythrop hounds three or four times 'a week ; while University College habitually sent forth a host of her sons, with Mr George Glyn (the Lord Wolverton who went over to the majority so recently) at their head, with the Berkshire pack— and what they did then their sons are probably doing now.

Jim tlte Slogger.

The present Bishop of Melbourne, Dr Goe, tells how he, by muscular Chrigtfanity, m.a<3 e

! converts of some bargees while he was rector of Bloomsbury. " They were notorious,' 1 ' says the Bishop, " for their dirty, intend perate, and improvident habits. One day a bargee called at the parsonage, and told nic that 'Jim the Slogger' wanted me to call and ' sprinkle his kid,' by which he meant to baptise the baby. I called accordingly at Jim's house at the time appointed— a hove], by the way, with but one room, one door, and one small window, The moment I was fairly inside, Jim locked the door and put the key in bis pocket, inquiring at the same tinie* : •Be yon the parson come to sprinkle my kid 1 ' ' I am the clergyman of the parish, and I have come to baptise your child, 111 1 replied. ' Yer can't sprinkle that kid till you and me have had a round, parson,' said Jim the Slogger. ' I did not come to fight, but to baptise your child,' I replied, as quietly as possible. ' I says Avhat I means and I means what I says — yer don't go out o' here and yer don't sprinkle my kid till you and mo have had a round or two,' says Jim. I looked at the door and window and saw there was nothing else for it but to humour the man. Fortunately my education, so far as the manly art of self defence goes, had not been neglected at college. I had with most other students taken lessons from distinguished professors in that line of busines. In fact, I had often put on the gloves, and knew a little about wrestling in the Cornish fashion. 'All right, Jim,' I answered, 'we will try who is the best man.' The battle was nob long nor severe, for watching my opportunity I landed my opponent a heavy hit on the ear, and down he went with a thud.

The Sprinkling of the Kid.

" After some time he sat up and muttered, ' Yes, he's the fellow for me ; he's the right sort of parson ; knows a thing or two. Lord ! •what a hit that war— right on the ear-hole, too ! It rings yet,' said he, looking up from his sitting* position on the floor. ' You're the parson for me, and thee shalt sprinkle my kid now. Molly, get a basin and some water." Molly, who had been looking on steadily all the time, got what was wanted, and the child was baptised. Next Sunday I saw a man at church whom I did not remember having seen before ; but I found it was my pugilistic friend, Jim the Slogger, who had washed his face — tho first time for many a long day. He seemingly took great interest in the service, and next Sunday about a dozen more bargees came with him, all with clean faces and all very attentive Strange as it may seem, this encounter with Jim was the beginning of a better life for him and his wife, and for his fellow bargees too." This reminds us of the excellent American story Mr Sala told years ago in "Household Words," if we remember rightly. It was entitled " Colonel Q.s Conversion." The colonel was a blacksmith at a point where many roads met, who had been born with a huge dislike to Methodists, and as \ camping ground for that body was near, he used to meet the pastors outside his shop as they passed and gave them the option of having a good thrashing or going back. Tho Methodists found this opposition rather hard, so they engaged a pugilist — Morrissey, we think— to travel that way in clerical attire. He was duly met by the blacksmith and Colonel of Militia, who, as was his custom, gave him the option of going back or having a thrashing. "How am I to take it," the pugilist in clerical attire asked. " Well," was the response, "you can take it either quietly or fighting." " I think I will take it fighting," said the pug., and dismounting from his horse he demolished the son of Vulcan in five minutes, and made him make a solemn vow he would not only never interfere with a preacher but attend all their camp meetings in future. In England this story was read with delight, and we understand it so pleased the Duke of Sutherland, the Fire Brigade General, that he sent for G. A. S. and complimented him highly on the anecdote.