AT THE CAULFIELD CUP OF 1888.

Otago Witness, Issue 1928, 2 November 1888, Page 25

AT THE CAULFIELD CUP OF 1888.

[ By a Visitob.

Melbourne, October 22. Under Mr Speight railway management in Victoria is supposed to have been brought to perfection. But as we make our way to the Caulfield Cup of 1888 we doubt Mr Speight's excellences and virtues. We leave a southern suburb to make our way to Caulfield in ample time if train management were moderately per* feet to see the first race. Though Caulfield is on the same line we cannot join a race train at any wayside station, for all race trains run express. This is a pleasant device for swelling railway revenue. Any other day you may go to Caulfield and back for 9d ; on a race day yon have to pay 2s. It is just the same, only more so, to Flemington. Any ordinary day you may go for 6d: indeed to the National Agricultural Show, which is just beside the racecourse, the charge is only 3d ; hut on a Melbourne Cup day the Railway department stick on 2s ' 6d, and make you disgorge 3s. It is a disgraceful swindle; but though load complaint is made every year no change is

made. The Agricultural Society when they took up their location at Flemingfcon made a special proviso, and wisely, for a sixpenny railway fare. Tho country farmer would sooner have walked the three miles, and his wife and weans along with him, than paid 3s. But we might forgive them the dear fare if they gave us a quick run out. The trouble began before we reached Melbourne, for between Richmond (the final wayside station) and tho city our train stopped three times — once for five minutes, the Becond time for four, and again for two, so that ws were 11 minutes late in getting to Melbourne. This was very discreditable in a mile and a-half journey, and was not reassuring for what was to follow. On the platform there were twice as many people as the train would hold. After a terrific scramble everybody got on board, packed like the proverbial sardines, and we were off. We positively crawled along, getting to Toorak, about five miles out, in 35 minutes. At the next station, Armadale, the Bteam gave out, and on a long rise we stopped altogether. Little boys ran alongside us and jeered. "Get out and push," they cried ; and asked, with a touch of satirical pathos, " Are you going to the races ? " Presently an engine came up behind and with a mighty heave scut us up the hill. Afterwards it was all "doon the brae," and at Caulfield we arrived at last, about quarter of an hour after the first race was over. So much for Mr Speight and his men. It was as provoking as in Dunedin in the old clays when we used to take train to see the Dunedii: Cup, and they used to stick you up at a little station called Musselburgh for quarter of an hour or 20 minutea at a time, and think nothing of it. The Argus to-day says' Mr Speight is going to England on leave, and possibly he may never return. '• Quite likely," says a native to whom we growl at the local railway management; ; " Speight is independent. He has been in the land boom ; made at least £100,000, and he would as soon leave as not. He is a bit tired of the worry. What does a fellow with a fortune like that care for £3000 a year, or even £5000 !" When we got to tho course we gave the railway people some excuse, for so big a crowd never gathered on the Caulfield heath before, and before the Cup came on there must have been very nearly 50,000 people on the ground. We arrived to find that a strong favourite in Lord Allen for the Maiden Plate had been beaten by a complete outsider despite the jockeyßhip of the famous Mick O'Brien. This was joy number one to the bookmakers. They were present in legions. Only a few of the leviathans of the ring keep up the practice of booking all bets, even those made on the course. The great army ■work on the cash principle. The betting paddock is on the right hand side of the grand stand, and between the events there comes from it a ceaseless hoarse roar, which, as you get nearer to it, resolves itself into, " I'll lay, I'll lay " ; "6to 1 Bravo " ; "10to 1 Spade Guinea "; "20to 1 Tradition " ; " Here you are " ; " Any odds these runners ? " &c, &c. Those who can, rival each other in the noise they make. You can see them lying back for a fresh effort out of their brazen throats. Their faces are swollen with their exertions and the excitement. They never stop, except when for a moment they are attending to some customer. All the bulls of Bashan assembled could not. out-bellow the bookmakers of Melbourne. The crowd is so dense you can scarcely force your way through. Each bookmaker hasaclerk who enters the wagers in a book which has separate columns for each horse. For instance, you put a pound on Spade Guinea. The bookmaker takes your money and drops it into his open bag. Say the odds are 10 to 1. He writes you a ticket—" Sp. G., £11." This means that if Spade Guinea wins he will give you £10 and your £1 back again. Each'ticket is numbered, aud under Spade Guinea's column the clerk enters the number of the ticket and the wager— thus: "/85-10 to 1." If Spade Guinea wins you present your ticket, the clerk checks off the number, and you get your money. There are rarely any mistakes, and the business proceeds like lightning, just as quick as the totalisator. If you can gefe a glance over the clerk's shoulder you may discover what horses are being most backed, but the system differs from the totalisator in that the total wagers are not divided among the lucky winners. If the favourite the bookmakers lose, and the public have gained the never-ceasing battle ; but it is too often the other way, as we discover before the day is out. The Maiden Plate has seen a horse not backed at all beat all tho others; and the Nursery Handicap comes next on the list. Rokeby, a colt by St. Albans, is so much a favourite that the cash bookmakers will at last lay only even money about him, but Mr White's Rudolph, by Martini-Henry, who was greatly neglected for some reason, wins out of a field of 16. Then there is a Selling Race, in which again the favourite is beaten ; and we have arrived at the race we and 50,000 others came out to see, the Caulfield Cup. There are 20 horses to go to the post. Lara had been killed the same morning by running away with a boy and staking himself against a rail, which led to his withdrawal. We turn to the mainVstand, which is not a great deal bigger than the Dunedin one, to get a seat ; but it is crammed. Every aisle and passage is filled, and there is not even foothold left. The horses are coming out, and wo go down to the fence to see them pass. There are a host of horse heroes. There is Honeydew, for whom £2000 had been paid, and who bad beaten Nelson at weight for age. As a Sydney man near us said, " Ha, ha, my beauty, if you're wanted to-day they'll have to gallop to beat you.'*' There is Cardigan, the winner of a Sydney Metropolitan. There is Bravo, from Ballarat, who won the V.R.C. Handicap ab three years, and has always been labelled one of the dangerous sort. There is Enfilade, a Musket, from New Zealand. There is Spade Guinea, the winner of the New Zealand and Dunedin Cups. There is Stanley, the winner of a Hawkesbury Handicap. The great Mr White has Plutarch, who had run second for a Hawkesbury Handicap ; and Mr Gannon, who owns Australian Peer and Arsenal, has Touchstone, who was a Queensland Cup winner. As we stand -at the fence, Honeydew looks calm and confident, as ail racehorses do who are in the best of condition; Cardigan is rough in the coat. Bravo is a picture, except that he is already wet about the flanks. Gorry, a iound, chubby-faced lad is on him, and hopes to repeat his Oakleigh triumph of last year. Tho Charmer, as she goes by, is bright looking, but has no stamina for a mile and a-half journey, although she is the first favourite. The great Hales is on Pakeha, as he was too heavy for Mr White's horse; and his mount has no peer on the course as regards fitness, his bright chestnut coat shining like satin. Tradition is a roonsfcer, like a trotting stallion. " How fat he is," people say ; but one old man adds, " yes, but you can see hid ribs through it." And feh-j result proves that stoutness has bei j n mistaken fat, for do horse in tho latter condifciou could have lived to the end of such a race. Mick O'Brien, a typical jockey, sharp of features, and small of limb, is on Stanley, who looks scarcely up to his weight ; and Power is on Touchstone. Chicago undoubtedly canters short, and we dismiss him without more ado from calculation. But we pin our faith to Spade Guinea. She looks lovely, walks like an aristocratic lady, and canters with a fine sweeping

motion. " She will win," we say to ourselves ; "and hurrah for New Zealand 1 " Who is her jockey? Who but Sanders, who rode Dunlop to victory in last year's Melbourne Cup. Spade Guinea cannot lose. They marshal to the left of the stand, about a "distance" from the judge's box ; and we move up to the lawn to get a view of the running. "Would you mind lending me your card ? " says a person beside us ;■ " I have lost mine." We do so, and the individual thanks us, and adds, "Aa you've been so kind I don't mind telling you the winner." "Indeed," we reply with some astonishment. " Yes," ho says, " Chicago ; he will win for a certainty." We don't agree with him, but don't care to hurt his feelings by saying so. It is soon all over, and once they are well into the straight what is in front but Chicago after all I Nothing gets near him, an! in 2min 38Jsec he passes the post first by a length aud a-half. Spade Guinea was in the lead quarter of a mile away, but she was nob in the race after they turned into the run forborne. We read in the Argus to-day that Sanders (her rider) and Gorry (tho jockey of Bravo) had a fight in the jockeys' room after the race over some incident in ifcj but whether Gorry interfered with the New Zealand mare or not, no other horse than Chicago could have won. It was not a sensational win; nothing electric about it like Ben Bolt's famous ono two years before. Silver* mine and Britisher on thab never-to-be-for-gotten afternoon had fought a , hard battle up the straight, and Alex. Robertson watching Britisher was half a length ahead 40yds from home. Suddenly Mick O'Brien brought up Ben Bolt literally like a bolt from the cerulean, just as unexpectedly and as quickly. How the horse did gallop! His trainer, Kelly, was on the lawn. His hat he took in bis right hand ; his eyes were fixed on O'Brien ; he yelled " Mick," and "Mick," and "Come on, Mick," as the jockey came nearer and nearer ; each yell grew louder than the last ; he accompanied each with a more vigorous wave of the right hand ; it seemed as if both jockey and horse responded to his frenzied call ; and with a final roar of " Mick " Ben Bolt passed the judge's box a head in front of Silvermine. A hundred yards away he had beennearly2Pydsbehind. So astounding a victory was never seen in Australia before. Every supporter of the horse was as excited as the trainer ; they had been cocksure of a win for weeks ; a defeat two seconds from the post seemed certain, yet victory was achieved. The revulsion of feeling was almost unbearable. One leading backer ran and covered the horses neck with kisses. '

Now that the Cup is over we have time to look around and try to discover acquaintances. It is a cold day ; there is a south wind from the bay, almost as chilly as a north-easter from Dunedin harbour on the Caledonian ground ; the dust is thick, a dirty chocolate, begriming everythiug. There is not a light suit of clothes to be seen, but many overcoats, and the ladies are keeping their best dresses evidently for the Melbourne Cup. There are many New Zealanders. Mr George M'Lean (who bewails to all his friends the absence of his beloved totalisator), Mr John Stephenson, Mr Hackworth, Mr Montagu Pym, Mr Joseph Baxter, Mr Thomas Dodson, all from Dunedin — vre 6ee moving about. They don't see Caulfield at its best by any means. It looks cheerless. But the stewards of the Victorian Amateur Turf Club are all rosy and blooming. Mr Fred. M'Evoy, who owns the winner, is a steward, and they have all won money with him, and there has been much champagne, which drives out the cold, and they all have a comfortable feeling. In the betting ring the shouting has began again, but it is milder, for the strain of the "big event "is over. There is a steeplechase which Corrigan wins on Coolart, the only favourite who wins all day ; and he is warmly cheered. But the last race is another " facer " for the public, for the favourite, on whom M. O'Brien has the mount, is beaten by Bothwell somewhat easily. We hurry to the train and have to wait 20 minutes on the- platform till one draws up to take us home, and a slow journey to Melbourne ends a tiresome afternoon. We are cold and dirty and ill-tempered. But we recover after a sluice in the Van Yean ; and go for dinner to the MaUon Doree in Louadale street. Who would not recover after such a dinner ? Five or six courses, we have the cooking done in the delicate French Btyle ; and with the dinner-a bottle of wine, and after it a cup of coffee with burnt brandy to give ifc flavour, and with the coffee a fragrant cigar. Then to the lovely Princess', where in " Olivette " Nellie Stewart and Fanny Liddiard, Howard Vernon, and old Teddy Royce give us comfort and joy. After all, in spite of the cold wiuds of Caulfield and the dust and slow trains, and the yelling crow of bookmakers, Melbourne is "marvellous Melbourne," and we seek a night's repose after a " great " day.