Humour of the Turf

Taranaki Daily News, 20 December 1924, Page 11 (Supplement)

Humour of the Turf

Stories from “Moturoa”

THE TOSS. Sportsmen are proverbially generous, and, when the going is good, they are apt to follow the old maxim “Easy come, easy go.” Not all, though, a© the following yarn will explain. Two local sports (for the moment we will call them Jinks and Spinks) regularly developed overpowering “thirsts” about 11 each morning, and, like all good fellows who are very fond of what they like, were wont to meet at their favourite hostel at that hour to settle their “drought,” andj although the “shout” always went round, there was the usual “toss” for payment of the first “life-saver.” Sporting instinct demanded it, and the procedure was religiously (sic) pursued. Now, one morning Jinks was right on the spot at the stroke of eleven, but Spinks was “posted missing.” Jinks had an “out size” in “thirsts” that iSorning, and. after cooling his heels (hut not his throat), for several minutes, he went to the ’phone and called up his boozing (ahem), I mean bosom partner. “That you, Spinks?' 1 he inquired. “Yes,” came the reply. “Vetting tired of waiting,” explained Jinks. “Hurry up.” “Sorry, but I’m busy,” said Spinks, “got a shop full of customers.” “Oh! Cut 'em out,” urged Jinks. “Can’t be done,” replied Spinks, “better have one on your own this morning but, say, you can leave one for me!” “Not on your life,” said Jinks with decision, "but I’ll toss you.” “Go on then,” assented Spinks. Jinks took the receiver in his left hand, and shouted: "Up she goes! It’s your call!” “Heads,” came through the ‘phone. “It's a tail,” yelled Jinks, “y lost!” And, like a satisfied victor, JinKs breasted the bar and “strapped up” a “hard one” on his cobber of the telephone! ANOTHER SHOUT. A party, including the writer, was motoring through to Woodville races one fine morning, and the pest of jhe outfit was the meanest man in Taranaki —a chap who would hang around the main gates of a racecourse for a couple of hours to get a “complimentary,” or, when every other method failed, would look for a hole in the fence. But what he lacked in generosity he amply made up for in volubility, and this human phonograph gave his fellow passengers the earache with his flow of chatter about things in general, and the passing scenery in particular. We were just rattling over the bridge which spans the Manawatu at Ashhurst when the solemn man of the outfit, with a meaning look at the rest of us, casually mentioned something about “tollgates” and "five bob fees.” “Have they got a toll-gate in the Gorge?” asked the pest. “Too right, they have,” asserted the quite person, “and they ‘sting’ each passenger a dollar too!” “Gee! That’s hot, ain’t it?” gasped the mean man. “Well, I've a plan,” said the quiet one. “We’ll hide you under a rug until we pass the toll-gate. You’ll save five bob, and can shout when we reach Woodville.” The know-all made a hurried calculation, and closed with the. deal. So, suiting the action to the word, he curled himself on the floor of the car, while we piled all the available rugs and overcoats on top of him. (There was no fear of him catching cold, at all events!)

At the entrance to the gorge the car slowed down, and all the fuss of paying an imaginery toll-collector was gone through. To carry the business through properly those in the back seat placed their feet on the prostrate mean man, and pressed the rugs, etc., firm'ly upon him.

“Look out for the inspector in the Gorge,” warned somebody in an assumed voice, as we drove off and the mean man had to lie low, though by this time he must have been nearly suffocated. Not until we emerged from the Gorge did we let our victim up, and by the time he had dusted and cleaned his togs, and got his breath back again, we had readied the hotel. ■“Cripes!” he gasped, “I suppose I'll have to shout, but I wouldn’t go through that ordeal again for twenty quid.” When the drinks had . been paid for, the solemn man raised his glass and gave the toast “To the toll-gate keeper who wasn't there!” . And all drank heartily—except the mean man, who, when he realised that he had been doubly “’rid,” painted the atmosphere with coarse expressions which east a lurid glare over the li'ttle township. A DOUBTFUL BOARDER. Trainers and jockeys never tire of “getting one on to” their fellow workers in the vineyard, .or the racing track, or whatever you like to call it, .and if the one sorted out for a little “friendly attention” happens to be of circumspect habits, the joke is better relished. It was at Feilding, the year that Leonia won the Cup, I think, and a number of Taranaki sports who l had “done” the coastal meetings arrived on the scene early. The place was not yet full, but the landlady (poor old soul!) assured us that every room was booked up for the races, and that she had turned down "hundreds.” “Any more coming from Taranaki?” inquired one joker, knowing full well that a certain little Taranaki trainer ? who had a hprse or two entered at the meeting, always, put up there. “Oh, yes,” replied Mrs. Boardinghouse, *Tve booked a single room for Mr. Sprinter. He wired from Hawera.” “Mr. Sprinter!” gasped the humorist, casting an anxious glance round the company.

, “Mr. Sprinter,” we all echoed in mock dismay. Mrs. Boardinghouse’s puzzled optics swept our (apparently) horror stricken countenances.

Why? What’s wrong with him?”

she asked, faintly. "He has stayed here before, and I always found him a perfect .gentleman.” “That was last year, wasn’t it?” inquired the humorist. And the company shook their heads. The poor old dame grew almost incoherent.

“I didn't know —” she began, an stopped short.

“Well, we don’t want to interfere with your business,” said the humorist, “but if he’s staying here we are leaving, that’s all!”

The following afternoon Mr. Sprinter arrived; stabled his horses; and ambled round to the .boarding-house to claim his room. Mrs. Boardinghouse was in the office, grim and foreboding, and the rest of us were in the commercial room near-by waiting to hear the fun. “Remember me ?” inquired Mr. Sprinter, briskly. ■“l’m Sprinter, You have my room ready?”

No,” said Mrs. B. decisively. “I’ve heard all about you —” “What’s wrong?” gasped Sprinter, in astonishment.

‘‘We’re particular who we accommodate here,” said Mrs. 8., putting on her most superior air.

“Great Scott. What’s up?” spluttered Sprinter. • “Here . . . someone’s been telling you a tale! Who told you about me, anyhow?”

Mr. Stayer and his friends,” said the good lady in acid tones, ‘ wore good enough to warn me against' having you in the house.”

“The devil they did!” roared Sprinter, “wait till I see them.” But he didn’t have long to wait. Stayer and his pals tumbled pell-mell into the passage, giving Sprinter a noisy welcome. Mrs. B. was very apologetic to Sprinter, but she went “stone cold” on Stayer and the rest of us. In fact, she made it so hot that we decided to -get even with her, which we did by forgetting to pay our board on leaving! A DIGGER’S YARN. This is a yarn of Egypt in 1915. (Five of us were sitting on empty cases around an improvised card table. The time was 2 a.m., an hour at which all dutiful privates should have been “dead-a-bun-k.” Ginger McGuire had dealt “the boards,” and only Ginger and I “stayed in.” I had two pair—“list. 71'b.”—and bought one card, but did not improve. Ginger bought one to Ace, King, Queen and ten of clubs—but missed. He 'made it four bob. “And another two,” said I. "And two more,” he bluffed back. “It goes for ten,” I snapped. Ginger was in Queer Street, but studied his cards thoughtfully. Then there was a stir outside. The tent-flap was rudely torn open, and in burst a strange Tommy officer. “What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded. Nobody stirred. “Seeing ten bob?” 1 draw’led at length, addressing Ginger. "Make it twelve bob,” said Ginger in desperation. “Here! Stop this,” roared the intruder. “ITI have to make it fourteen on you, Ginger,” I said, unconcernedy. “Stop at once,” commanded the Tommy, and reaching Ginger’s shoulder, he shook it roughly, demanding “Do you i know who I am?” “Dashed if I do,” drawled Ginger, throwing his "busted flush” on the table in disgust, “but I wish to heaven you were the blanky Jack of Clubs, that’s all!” A ROYALER. Ginger Mick’s laudable attempt to “•land” a "royal routine” reminds me of another poker story. Of the haif-dozen or so who nightly played in Hut X. at Featherston nobody had more execrable luck than Lonely Tim. If Lonely held a pair of "Johns,” somebody was sure to produce two “Ladies,” and Lonely only had to show a “straight” for some unkind person to produce a “flush.” But Lonely played on, always hopeful that his luck would change, and even when “cleaned up,” he would come up smiling next pay-day, and "go for evens.”

Sooner or later, he asserted, the luck would change, and then lie would “tickle us up” properly. One night, the game had progressed much as usual. Lonely was losing steadily, and the group of onlookers were beginning to yawn. Then something happened. Good hands came out all round. “Straights,” “flushes,” and “four cards,” were spread in the circle. Lonely bought the middle of ' a “royal routine flush,” and sat up— full of business. Somebody made it “twelve bob.” Lonely ran liis eyes rapidly over his cards, douibtful of his eyesight. “Sixteen,” he snapped.

Then some silly spectator at Lonely’s elbow remarked: “Gor’ blime! That’s the first ‘royal routine’ I’ve seen for three munce—,” but he got no further. Lonely rose, with anger in his eye, and smote that cursed interrupter on the nose. All hands “threw in,” and Lonely only colleicted a few small wagers and his “royalty.” He never played again. His chance had come—but had slipped through his nands. That was the “stone end” of poker for Lonely. WHICH RED? The totalizator had just closed on the Farewell Hack Handicap, the concluding event at Bulls, when a fearful hubbub arose in a corner of the grandstand, and all eyes (and ears) were quickly focussed on the centre of the disturbance. Sbme half-dozen angry women had surrounded an equally annoyed little dame, and there appeared to be the makings of a riot in the bunch. “We told you to ;put the two quid on Half Red,’’ screamed the malcontents. “Nothing of the sort,” the little woman contradicted, “you said Some Red,” and she shook a couple of tickets in their flushed faces. “M r e did not,” asserted one party. “Of course we didn’t,” snapped another, decisively. “Poof!” “Some Red!” “That thing!” came in a chorus. “Well, you can have your money back,” said the little dame in desperation. “That’s no good to us,” ecreamed her opponents, “we want Half Red’s dividend when it wins ” What would have happened if the cry of “They're off” had not gone up at that moment, goodness only knows. The horses .streamed along the back of the course. Alabama was in front. Thon came something in green. Then followed Half Red. Some Red was toiling in the rear. “A nice dance Some Red has got,” wailed one big woman. "Half Red will walk in,” asserted the second.

“And it’s paying twenty qiid, too,” wailed another.

The field closed up entering the straight, with Alabama still going strong in front, and Half Red close up, while Some Red’s chance appeared hopeless. | “Alabama wins," roared the crowd. "Half Red! Half Red!” shouted others. “Oh! We’ve lost, anyhow,” howled the women.

“All your fault,” one of them screamed, lashing out viciously at the cause of all the trouble. Excitement now ran high. Backers of Alabama and Half Red roared themselves hoarse. The women in the corner of, the stand wept in despair. Then suddenly there was a hush. Sometliing with a dull red jacket was coming fast on the outside. What was it? Surely not Some Red? “Yes! Some Red!” shrieked the little womap, “Some Red will win yet!” Half Red was beaten, and Alabama was “coming back.” Could Some Red catch the leader? Inch by inch he crept up. The crowd stood on tip-toe, barracking frenziedly. Even the angry women forgot to weep, and joined in the tumult. “Alabama!” “Some Red!”

Twenty yards from the poet the pair were level. The white jacket was in front. Then the red. Level again, and. locked together, the two horses flashed past the judge's box. Everyone held their breath, v.aiting for the fateful numbers to go up. The man in the box gave his decision promptly. Some Red’s number was on top! Cheers broke out, the little woman’s shrill treble being heard above the din. Her companions clapped their hands with glee. They were on the winner! How lovely! And what will it pay? All their squabbling was forgotten in a flash. The little woman was forgiven. And in a few minutes they were joyfully dividing a nice roll of notes and some silver: and everyone was smiling—for, of course, they liked Some Red all along; and the little woman was a brick, and so forth. And the spectators moved away, wondering what would have happened if Half Red had won—and not Some Red!