BRIEF MUSINGS.

Southland Times, Issue 19508, 6 May 1922, Page 11

BRIEF MUSINGS.

BEING THE STRAY THOUGHTS OF AN EGOTIST. No. 9. Of the strange good fortune that characterised my first visit to the races I would tell you interspersed with a few of the impressions that were left with me after my brief participation in what has been called (originally, perhaps, by a Scotsman who deplored the extravagance of the plebians) the Sport of Kings; It was a bright summer’s morning on which I paid my first visit to a racecourse; in fact, the sun has never shone quite so brightly since, for then I was a person of good intention, kindliness and innocence and the man with whom I went was by no means innocent—in fact, he assured me that all I had to do was to put my money on the horses he told me and my strength would not be equal to carrying back my reward. He was a grand person, cheerful yet always dignified, reserved yet full of kindly counsel. It is true that when first he took me by the sleeve and told me about all the information he had as to what was to occur, I felt somewhat ill at ease because of the ragged nature of his clothes, the holes in his boots and the faded colour of his hat, but I put those feelings from me as unworthy and substituted for them a feeling of pride that this dignified, portly gentleman who was so obviously “on the inside” (as I had heard the sporting folk’s remark is), should have selected me from the thousands race-wards bound as his confidant. We had some very narrow escapes as we found our way to the course, groping through clouds of dust raised by vehicles driven at a pace that caused me to conclude that race-goers are a nerveless class. But my conclusion was wrong for later I saw that they were the most nervous of people, many of them. I saw that when we reached the course—the way they rushed about, treading on one another’s toes with evident scant concern whether they were the trampers or the tramped, the steely light in many eyes, the excited pitch of the voices, all showed me that I was among a people capable of feeling keenly alive. My good friend, whom I shall refer to as the Guide (a word capable of warm meaning through its inclusion in the immortal phrase, “guide, philosopher,” etc.), even was affected by the changed atmosphere into which we came. Previously, although quietly jolly, he had not looked extraordinarily happy, but no sooner were we within the gates than be threw his head back and assumed a step that seemed to beat out on the sward, ‘I am the monarch of all I survey.” How apt was the tattoo of the Guide’s feet, I mused, in view of the fact that we were to disport ourselves as Kings. I had had little time in which to take proper cognisance of my surroundings when there occurred the loud clanging of a distant bell. “Fire!” I cried at once, beginning to run I knew not whither as is the instinct of fire-worshippers. “Fire be hanged,” said the Guide, “that is the tote.” Then he explained to me that the bell was rung to indicate that the time had come for the people to back their fancies. “Have you ever gambled before?” he queried. I admitted that in my early and sinful youth I had been guilty of playing marbles—a confession that made him momentarily drop his dignified air and break into vulgar guffaws. Previously, it should be explained, my Guide, who was, it appeared, suffering from a passing financial embarrassment, had consented to give me all his valuable information if I undertook to supply the funds for both of us. So now he ordered, “Gomel” grasped me tightly by the arm and murmured, “Don’t mind if you get bumped about.” And he led me in among the people who stood in front of tho building in which the bell rang. There ; were numbers that kept changing constantly on this building and they, strangely to I me, seemed to posesss a strong fascination for the people who stood in front. After watching these numbers until inspiration was derived, men and women stepped towards the windows that were beneath the numbers with money in their hands and returned with little pieces of cardboard. All the time about me there was a continual buzz of conversation, from which I picked such • remarks as “No good, not a trier!” “Going not suitable,” “Just got the tip.” Suddenly the Guide, who had been manifesting a keen interest in all about him, shook me gently and whispered, “On number three; that window, and have some on yourself. I have the straight tip.” Now, there was something compelling about the Guide’s instructions and, as I elbowed, pushed and scrambled through to the end of the queue that had formed in front of the window I found myself taking from my pockets a pay envelope, a month old and unopened, which had given me many a comforting moment as I fingered it. I tore open the envelope and took its contents in my hand—very tightly, it may be mentioned, for there were those about me. who cast envious eyes in the direction of my hard-earned money. Then I looked at my fellows and noted in a feverish anxiety to “get there” stamped on many faces, and that the expression was no false one .1 knew from the excitement in the conversation and from the numerous buffetings I had received on my way to the window. But I cared little for these things, thinking that probably I too looked very anxious and that I had expressed that anxiety by buffeting other people the better to early satisfy my desire. My musings were broken. The woman in front of me had, in a penetrating • staccato, demand “One on four.” I threw my roll on the sill and said “All on three.” The man behind the sill looked at me-very hard for he knew me, and knowing me, knew that the way of the racecourse was a new way for me. Even harder did he look at the notes, but they satisfied him apparently, and, as I left clutching twenty tickets on number three, he was feeling in his own pockets. I had impressed him. As I came away a man high up was threatening to close the windows and at that threat there was another rush forward that bore me back out of sight of the Guide and almost trampled me underfoot. But by now I was a man of stern, unflinching determination, and in the end I won my way back to the Guide’s side at the cost of many bruises and to the annoyance of some, of my most active corns. “Gee!” exclaimed the Guide, glancing at my tightly grasped tickets, ‘You’ve been plunging. You’re coming on.” The time to the beginning of the race seemed to pass very quickly; there was so much to interest a student of human nature like myself. There were many' businessmen I knew who, the essence of cool- ’ ness under ordinary conditions, were changed beings under the spell of the course. On these changes and on the probi able result of my investment 1 meditated, on the latter more soberly now that the excitement of the investing was over. And in ail truth the 20 pieces of cardboard that were mine seemed to be a very poor speculation—when “They’re off,” exclaimed the Guide in a tense voice, “and number three is out in front.” Then all about me there rose a great amount of talking and argument, some observers maintaining that one thing was happening, and some another. Men who seemed to be complete strangers to others guilty of repetitions such as “Black Heart’s moving up, Black Heart’s moving up,” turned and savagely denied the statement, alleging, in this particular case, that the erring Black Heart was a furlong behind and that Lucy May (evidently this gentleman’s fancy) was going to win. Such a number of statements and rebuttals I had never heard before, but the Guide shut my ears to the clamour when he directed, “Run to the tote and be in early, No. 3’s winning easily.” Then I became conscious only of the tickets in my hand and of the imperative necessity for my doing as directed at once. Of the I had eoeu nothing, but evidently I had backed a \zimer. And it was so, for even as I attempted to push my way through the throng, being roundly cursed for my effort, the crowd began to shout No. 3’s name in a raucous chorus that was sweet music in my ears—at first. The name was Wake Up.