AN EVENTFUL DERBY DAY.

Otago Witness, Issue 2051, 15 June 1893, Page 47

AN EVENTFUL DERBY DAY.

By O. N.

On the night of the 28th May, 188—, two letters, freshly written, lay in front of me on my desk. The first ran as follows : — Gray's Inn, May 28, 188—. My Dear Uncle James,— Many thanks for your last letter, received yesterday ; also for the cheque you so generously enclosed. I trust your health is greatly improved since I last saw you. I shall take a run down to Kingston next Sunday to see you, if all goes well. — In haste, your affectionate nephew, William Jackson. The second epistle was to my chum, Fred Nicolson :— Gray's Inn, May 28, 188—. Dear Fred,— Yours to hand. I will meet you to-morrow morning — 12 o'clock sharp — at the "Tivoli." I hope to goodness my respected uncle does not discover that I have gone to see the Derby run. You know what an antipathy the old chap has to race meetings — upon my word I believe he considers them the short cut to perdition. — Yours, W. Jackson. I looked at my watch ; nearly 8 o'clock ! And I had an engagement to go to the Lyceum Theatre that night. I hastily enveloped my letters, stamped and addressed them, and seizing hat and coat hurried down the stairs to the street; there I deposited the letters in the nearest pillar box, and hailing a passing hansom was soon rattling away westward. Little did I imagine what tomorrow had in store for me! What long hours of solid misery I was to undergo— but, as the novelists say, " I anticipate." The next morning broke calm and fair, the genial sun pouring down his rays upon the grimy housetops. Verily it was grand weather, and I was in the best of spirits over my solitary breakfast that bright May morning. That important meal finished, I determined to work. It was as yet but 9 o'clock, and three hours had to be spent somehow before I met Fred in the Strand, so I seated myself at my desk and endeavoured to concentrate my attention on musty law books. And now, perhaps, a word or two about my Uncle James would not be amiss. James Jackson was a retired stockbroker, and lived at Kingston-on-Thames. He was an elderly bachelor, and very comfortably off. I was left an orphan at an early age, and my uncle James had taken me in hand, given me an excellent education, and finally had embarked me in the legal profession. Like many men who have led what is generally termed a fast life in their youthful days, my uncle had settled down into an extremsly sedate, not to say fussy, old gentleman. Gambling in all its varieties he abhorred, together with drinking ; and horse-racing he had a particular down upon. Now, the latter amusement was, I must confess, rather a favourite one with me at the time of which I am writing, although sincß I have come to maturer years I look upon it with a somewhat less favourable eye. However, we all have to learn — more^or less dearly — from experience, and it is certainly not my intention to deliver a homily upon the demerits of horse-racing. Suffice ;to say that had my uncle known that I was ' in the habit of attending even occasional raca meetings, I should not only have incurred his displeasure, but should very likely have run the risk of being left to my own resources, which at that time were nil, for I was but a briefless barrister. But to return to my story. A quarter to 12 came at last, and flinging my books aside I arrayed myself in hat and light overcoat and sallied forth to meet Fred Nicolson at the Tivoli restaurant. On my arrival there I found that Fred had not yet made his appearance on the scene, and after waiting some minutes I was at last forced to sit down to lunch alone. Half-past 12 came and still no Fred, so I started off for the Victoria station. The platform was thronged when I arrived, but I could see no sign of Fred anywhere, and I came to the conclusion that some unforeseen event had prevented him at the last moment from keeping h's appointment. I met two or three acquaintances of mine, all in the highest possible spirits, and we i contrived to pass thetima very pleasantly during the short run from Victoria station to the ; fat-famed Epsom Downs. Judge of my surprise when on alighting at our destination I beheld my f ciend Fred step from the adjoining carriage. He on his part appeared astonished to see me, and mutual explanations were ex : changed. " Why didn't you keep our appointment at the livoli, Fred ? " I asked him. "Appointment at the Tivoli?" be exclaimed; "never had one to keep. I only just caught this train. It was a deuced narrow squeak, I can tell you. But I say, Bill," he continued, " what on earth made you send me this ? " (producing a letter from his pocket). " You've got your letters mixed up somehow, and put them in the wrong envelopes." I grasped the situation at once— the letter that Fred handed me was to my Uncle James, but addressed to Fred, and, terrible to think of 1 ray uncle must have already received the note intended for my friend's

eyes alone. What was to be done? Fred was sympathetic, but could suggest no remedy — the mischief was done and it couldn't be helped. That was but cold comfort to me as I stood bewailing my fate and impotently cursing the act of thoughtless haste which had brought me to such a pass. "Come along, old man," said Fred, " there's not a bit of good making a moan over it. You're down here now, and there's nothing to be gained by turning back. Come on and let's see the fun out."

11 Fun, indeed 1 " I groaned dismally, but obeyed, and a few minutes later we were on the course. Many a abler pen than mine has described Epsom Downs on Derby Day, and I daresay many of my readers have seen the wonderful sight, for a wonderful sight it is ; but for me the Derby of 188— had no attraction whatever. I positively loathed the sight of the long stretch of course, the vast surging sea of humanity on the downs and in the tightly-packed stands ; and even the spectacle of a dozen sleek racehorses, with their coats shining like satin, issuing from the saddling paddock inspired me with no enthusiasm. Contrary to my usual habit I betted heavily and recklessly, and, strange to say, I won a considerable sum of money ; but lose or win — it was all one to me— l could not escape from the haunting vision of my irate uncle — a veritable skeleton at the feast; and I was heartily glad when I found myself once again in the train, travelling swiftly back to town. Weary and low-spirited, I ascended the stairs to my chambers. The rooms, of course, were in darkness. I struck a match and lit the gas, and in doing so I noticed a salmon-coloured object lying near the door, which on examination proved to be a telegram. I tore it open with a presentiment of coming evil, and read as follows : " Come at once, your uncle dangerously ill. — J. Barton, Kingston." My first act after perusing these words was to consult a Bradshaw— lo minutes to 1 catch the next train to Kingston. I turned the gas out and fled, hailed a passing cab, and told the man to drive like the devil to Waterloo station. .Well, it was touch and go, but the streets were fairly clear, and I succeeded in boarding the train in time; then, with a sigh of relief, I lay back in a corner of the carriage and tried to collect my scattered thoughts. Suddenly an idea struck me. When was that telegram despatched from Kingston ? I re-read it — handed in at the Kingston office at 12.10 p.m. — and the time was now nearly 8 o'oclock. What might not have happened dn those four hours 1 My excited imagination conjured up all sorts of pictures. Kingston at lastl and in a few minutes more I stood before my uncle's house. The place seemed deserted — no lights to be seen anywhere. I rang the bell, and stood panting on the steps. Heavens, how long they were answering my ring ! At last I heard a slow footstep come shuffling along the passage, and hands fumbling with chains and bolts. The door opened, and my uncle's old valet, Barlow, stood, candle in hand, gazing inquiringly at me. 11 Am I too late 1 " I gasped. « Too late ? What for, sir 2 " For reply I handed him the telegram. He looked blankly at it for a few seconds.

" Can't understand it, sir," he said slowly, 11 Mr Jackson's all right so far as I know. He left here yesterday for Brighton, and I don't expect him back till to-morrow night." The old man paused and scratched his grizzled head thoughtfuUy. " I did hoar," he continued, " that there's an old gent living down in Royal terrace, whose name's Jackson too, as was taken bad this morning. Maybe this telegram has something to do with him."

I felt quite dazed — my uncle not dying as I supposed, my letter Why, of course, my letter was very probably lying in the house at that moment unopened 1 " Give me a glass of wine and something to eat, Barlow. Anything will do." " Going to Bleep here to-night, sir 1 " asked Barlow.

" No," I answered, " I am going back to town."

The old fellow hurried away to get me some refreshment, leaving me in the library. On the writing table I caught sight of a small pile of letters. I turned them over hastily, found what I wanted, and in another moment my unfortunate letter was safely in my overcoat pocket. I returned to London that night, tired out, but happy. The next day I inquired if there was anyone of the same name as myself residing in Gray's Inn, and was told that a young fellow named Jackson had taken chambers there two days previously. Explanations and apologies followed on my pait. No harm had been done, however, as my namesake's uncle had nearly recovered and was progressing favourably. And so my tale is finished. I dare say it sounds tame and commonplace enough reading, but the remembrance of that eventful Derby Day will ever remain indelibly stamped upon my memory.