BY WIRELESS

Taranaki Daily News, 17 December 1926, Page 9 (Supplement)

BY WIRELESS

A RACING TALE

(By

"Moturoa”

“Ever heard a race broadcasted by wireless?” inquired Stalker of our old friend, Paddy Molloy. “No, I never did,” replied Paddy. “I’ve heard all that cabaret music coming through, though. Heard the drums, and the cymbals, and the bones, and the cubi. eles rattling. It was great; but I didn’t know that you could get the racing through that way.” “And not more than three or four know it in this town, either,” added Stalker, ’‘but if you’ll keep your mouth shut, I'll take you along right now, and you can hear the races being run at Whakapuaka.” “You’re on,” said Molloy, and, after a couple of gin-slings at the Cri., the pair wandered up the street and were admitted to a dingy little room in a house in a side lane. “Hush,” said a voice as Stalker and Molloy entered, “he’s just going to give us the starters in the hurdles.” A loud speaker stood in the corner of the room, and, seated on gin cases, were a couple of tin sports who were too busy training their ears to eatch the ragged splutterings of the speaker to cast more than a casual glance at the intruders. The latter drew’ up boxes, and sat down. Then the speaker started: “There are eight runners in the hurdles (biff, bang, and loud squeals). , . Fiery Prince and Haeremai are scratched (more squeals, and a sound like thunder). . . the runners are (blubb, bash, blubb) • . • Queen Mab, L. G. Morris; Indian Rose, W. Bowden; (prolonged noise resembling a machine-gun in action). . . Royal Toy, A. McDonald; Comedy Lad, F. Towler; (howls and -cat-ealls). . . Lord Hal, W. Rennie; (bash). . . and Star of the West, N. Rowe; (bang).” "Wonderful, isn’t it?” whispered Molloy. “But we missed three horses,” added Stalker. “They were Golden Dawn, Flying Swallow and Daisy Clipper,” replied Molloy, consulting a bookmaker’s eard. Then the speaker continued: “It is a line day for the races (howls and shrieks). . . course is in good order (somebody made a racket like a demented carpenter trying to saw through a sheet of corrugated iron). . . attendance is large (more disturbances). . . the horses are now in the birdcage. . . Queen Mab looks well . . . 'Flyin" Swallow appears to be tucked up . . ’ Indian Rote is jumping out of her skin Three or four ladies’ voices are heard criticising the shockingly short frocks worn by two ladies on the lawn. (More crashes like thunder). , . they are going to the post now . . . Queen Mab went best in her prelim . . . now I’ll switch you on to some music while I go and have a look at the tote (the band plays a ragged march, punctuated with a various assortment of extraneous noises not scheduled in the piece). “It’s as good as being at the races/* said Stalker, now that the tension was relaxed, and the listeners were commenting on the chances of the runners. “There’s only one drawback,’* continued Stalker, “a. fellow can’t have a bet.” “I wonder!” commented Molloy. The speaker passed over a few splutters and began again. “There’s not much betting on this race (howls) . . . Queen Mab is a good favourite (pro. longed disturbances, and half-a-dozen people talking at once) . . . Comedy Lad is the outsider of the field . . the totalisator will close in five, minutes (bash, bang) . . . i’ll read you you a few wires I received to-day . . . Here’s one from Pouma at Stratford (crash) . . . says that results are coming through clearly, and he won’t budge from his wireless set (shrieks) . . . Jock Caldow, Bulls, says band selections very clear (noise) . . . can hear the euphonium playing sweetly • . . from Mrs. Graham, New Plymouth . . . thanks for broadcast . . . offers to put me on to the winner of the Auckland Cup (more corrugated iron sawing) . . . Oh! Here’s a whole bundle. of wires . . . anyone would think it’s my wedding day (howls) . . . now the horses are lining up . • . Flying Swallow is on the rails . . . Daisy Clipper next . . . then something in green (consults card)

. . . it’s Comedy Lad (a buzz of excitement, and a shout of ‘they’re off’) - . . Yes, they’re away ... a good start (more excitement) . . . Flvin" Swallow is in front , . . Yes*. Flying Swallow, and then comes Queen Mab and Comedy Lad . . . Daisy Clippeh is last (a dull roar from occupants of the stand) . . . Flying Swallow nearly fell at the first (bash, bang and yells) . . . Queen Mab leads passing the stand . .. . Comedy Lad. Flying Swallow and Indian Rose are close up (crashes and squeals) . . . now they’re heading for the back stretch . . . Queen Mab is still in front . . . Comedy Lad is next . . . Flying Swallow has retired (blurt, blurt) . . . can’t jump . . . the rest are out of it . . . looks as if Queen Mab win win . . . they’re coming into the straight (shouts of ‘Queen Mab,’ and rising excitement) . . . Queen Mab will win . . . Comedy Lad is sticking on well . . . he’s closing up (yells of 'Queen Mab,’ with feeble calls for ‘Comedy Lad’) . . . Queen Mab . . . Comedy Lad . . . it’s a great race (bang, and frenzied shouts for both horses) . . . they’re level now, and only fifty yards ’to go . . . Queen Mab . . . no, the lightweight has her beaten (uproar, and Comedy Lad’s name being called most) . . . Comedy Lad wins . . . Yes, Comedy Lad won by a length . . . Queen Mab ten lengths in front of Indian Rose . . . Royal Toy fourth (excitement gives wav to a steady murmur, and then all is silence). “Puts it over well,” remarked the owner of the set. “Too right, he does,” said Stalker, coming back to earth again after being worked up by the detailed account of the race. “Most people who watch a race only see the horse they are backing,” added the first speaker, “lint over the wireless you get everything.” Stalker did not answer immediately, being at a loss to account for the disappearance of Molloy, who was not then in the room, though when he had slipped out, Stalker did not know, and nobody else knew, either. Then the loud speaker got busy again. “There is an inquiry (howls and bangs) . . . the tote isn’t paying out . . . hold on a few minutes (buzz, buzz) . . . I’ll find out what’s up . . .” (shuts down). Molloy returned at this stage, but offered no excuse for his temporary absence. and the quartette began to discuss the next race. The loud speaker again: “Yes. there was a protest' . . . Comedy Lad , (squeals) . • . failed to draw the 1

weight ... six pounds short.. . . disqualified (more noise, and sounds of a. band in the distance playing ‘Sob Sister Susie’) . . . plaeings now are, Queen Mab first ... Indian Rose second (biff, smash) . . . Roy Toy third . . . We are closing down now for (bang) . . . five minutes.” (Closes down.) Molloy sprang to his feet. “I’m going,” he said, hurriedly. “Comming?” to Stalker. “What’s Your Hurry?” asked Stalker. “Oh! I’ve had enough of that stuff for one day,” added Molloy decisively. "I’m feeling dry,” and he made for the door, ’Stalker, who was always the perfect gentleman, waited only long enough to thank the owner of the wireless set, and joined his sparring partner outside. “Wonderful, wasn’t, it?” enthused Stalker, as they turned into the main street. “Rotten, I think,” snapped Molloy. “Oh! But you missed the best part of it, Paddy. Anyway, where did you disappear to at the finish?” “Where ? * Where do you think ?” snarled Molloy. “Why, as soon as I heard the finish I dashed across to Ikey McLongodds, and put my last tenner on Comedy Lad. Ikey took it , . . Baid I was a couple of minutes late . . . but nobody could get the result through in that time! “And Comedy Lad had to go and get disqualified—” began Stalker. “Oh! Curse It! The game’s not fair,” howled Molloy. "Come and have a drink!”