AT THE TROTS.

Sun (Christchurch), Volume I, Issue 59, 16 April 1914, Page 6

AT THE TROTS.

ELDERLY MEN IN CRICKET FLANNELS. PACERS, AND OTHER MATTERS. Specially written for THE SUN. A man with sharp knees and a whisky rash either side of his nose climbed' aboard the special car for the trots, and called heaven to witness that it was a good day.. The time was after lunch. Across the aisle of the car an overfrocked damsel, with a suspicious, babylike pink beneath her left ear, patted' her back eoiffure tenderly and opened a race book. The long man with, the sad face, (and the rash) gave a dull monologue to an audience of one all the way to Addington. He had V a brother in the Force; he himself had helped to put up. the tram poles; last year he had had jjitrip' Home. *- ■'•••■■- :

The obliging conductor two seats ahead named a horse in reply to a query.

"What woii the.'first?" called the monologuist. The reply flattened him. "Tommy C," he repeated dolefully. "Imperial Crown paid (something) quid in the Maiden,'' volunteered the kind conductor.

Into the faded eyes of the long-drawn sport there came such a light as was never on- ; sea or land.

"I knew Price wouldn't let me'in," he explained, and leaned across me fraternally.

THE CRY IS ' 'DILLON.''

"We parted at the- course, at the sign that says "Inside —Outside." A dull roar came from the lawn. The contestants in the big race had turned into the straight, and a hot favourite looked like romping home. The roar took on a clearer note as the field neared. The crowd perched on the swell of earth along by the opulent stand swayed and called aloud —closer up, the roar became almost an entreaty. The glad crescendo dropped dead as the favourite shut up hopelessly, and, while afar off, one could catch a "Dillon" in the clamour. It Avas "Dillon," "Dillon," all the way to the judge's box, and it was a foamflecked bay mare, Ivy Dillon, who did splendidly and was escorted into the birdcage. SPATS—AND SOME LADIES.

A man with the face of a suburban butcher, with braided broadcloth on his back, and lavender spats, and mien to match, swore flagrantly asi a happy crowd armed with bits of pasteboard rushed enthusiastically over the spatted feet towards the' pay Avindows. His blaspheming was quite A\ r ithout variety —it was plain anathema, repeated after the style of an anthem. Across the throng of doAvncast habitues of the lawn a flambuoyant frock burnt a track, drawing all eyes. The male attendant followed jauntily, each step displaying (strange contrast) lately half-soled and heeled footwear. The band played a quiet theme reminiscent of the swan song woven about the threatened heroine in an hysteric picture drama. Waiting on the next event, men played the after-game in the bars with vivid gesture, and doAvn in the "outside" re-

serve flushed women regarded their escorts with the affecting look of the sex when the machine promises to rob them of their furtive silver. It is the ' V.an't-you-find-a-winner?" look, pathetic and depressing. PATENT LEATHERS AND CHROME. However. It was a great day and fine racing—all the winners agreed on that. Tire splendid tea house buzzed with the passage of saint and shiner alike. Away beyond Deans's Bush the distant range showed up in a melting mauve haze. Down the green promenade went the patent leathers. On the other side of the birdcage—my eye was caught by the stark long man in earnest discussion with a droll Chinaman—the chrome trod the shingle. Mystic was the pea for the Autumn Handicap —one of the scorching hotpeas. Presently the animals filed out, their trappings creaking, the sulkies just rustling over the gravel. Seated behind the horses were the drivers. To one quite unused to anything but galloners, the sight of elderly, grizzled,

corpulent men participating in a race of any sort was a cause for wonderment. It hurt one's feelings to see these shrewd Jtellows with—but allow a lady (also new to the game) io explain' things. "":'.-. EYES ON THE DRIVERS.

"Look. That stout man is wearing cricketing flannels," she shrilled in a sweet , soprano. "Histl'M said darkly. "He is a great driver. Like. Jehu, he driveth furiously." '' And tan boots,'' she burbled.

. '.'Don't, please, " I said, distracting I her attention from a driver iwho wore, amongst other things, salmon-pink socks, dusty' boots, and a tan jacket drawn in at the waist. >

"Why do those horses have leggings on?" " .■'■'" I ■

" Can't you see the water cart has just been over the track? '.Uj. answered complacently. .. u ! '' Oh!'' she exclaimed. .i . WARMING XJP. "' \

Before facing the electric starter, the animals are warmed up. A trotting race (harness) amounts to this:,. A.lot (•or a-few) chariot-like (lashes round a r t>yal a few times for fun, and two or three times in dead earnest. Of course, there is some, shouting to be added i when the chariots compass the home fbend, and the hard-pressed favourite jbegins to skip £0 -yards from the line,' or" breaks into a gallop. TMs latter assisted to undo the Mystic bundle. I

WILKIE, FROM DUNEDIN. ; However. Let us take a concrete : example. • It is the International Handicap (harness),, with, all .starting-. 'J A hot bunch,'' comments '' Templar,'' who should know what he is talking about. A likely-looking brown gelding on the 6sec (the limit) mark, Don Ca?sar, has been sorted out by the intelligent publie. On the same mark; Huia Dillon (Huia —a stallion!) is a close second favourite. Mandarene, a handsome black horse from Auckland, is third in public esteem. A natty little quadruped from Dunedin, a narrow strider, takes the eye in the preliminaries. He carries the stars and stripes—backing him, one needs no binoculars. The crowd stirs uneasily as the limit horses slide away, with the Dunedin " rabbit" (term supplied by an outsider) snatching the rails. Before the home turn lis reached for the first time, Huia Dillon 's backers have no more anxiety. The field takes the turn . into the straight under a canopy of dust —all except the scratch competitor, Albert H. Wilkie (from Dunedin) bangs past the stands. and away, hugging the rails. A bay gelding follows him gamely, with the; favourite a little further back well in hand.

GOOD FOR THE FAVOURITE. 1 Already punters begin, to ' give cry. Having understanding, they aire not yet afraid for the favourite. Three Maoris hang over the birdcage rails, apparently unmindful of little Wilkie, or Don Ca?sar about to descend. Crowded \ out from seeing, a fatherly Chinaman parades to and fro, calling on Confucius; On the long back straight the favour-ite-gets to the nippy leader—-he pays a solid dividend, first or second,—and by the time heads are looking homeward again it is all over. Docs Wilkie let up? Not a yard. Wheels whirr, leathers creak, and —Dunedin need not go into mourning just yet. THE OLD GREY.

11l the next race, a warm favourite swooped from the clouds to snatch a late-hour victory, and a bay mare ran third and stopped to a walk of her own tired accord—spun right out. In the last race on the card, a prosaic affair of the saddle, the only horse recognisable 50 yards away was a veteran whitehaired animal overburdened by handicapper Time. Sympathy did what it could, but sympathy cannot achieve miracles. A GREAT CLUB.

Before recording the last race of all —a big field sprinting for the cars and fighting out a stirring finish—it remains to be said that the New Zealand Metropolitan Club is working wonders for the sport. Magnificent stand accommodation —the big stand will hold 2500, — grounds made more beautiful out of the profits, most imaginable racecourse facilities —all these impress the stranger, aud bespeak a super-excellent management. Generous and wisely administered, this club prospers as it deserves. THE BLOQUE.