BEHIND THE LINES.

Taranaki Daily News, 18 December 1930, Page 9 (Supplement)

BEHIND THE LINES.

TALES FROM THE STABLES. (By “Paritutu”.) There was a down-the-line horseowner who swore by port wine as the king of “hurry-up ’ tonics, and invariably when his horse was “after the goods’ he would send along a bottle of the best Spanish to “clinch” matters. And after the race, when celebrating the win with “gold top,” he would quietly whisper, “The port did it!” But one wonders if he ever knew where that wino went to! The writer happened to be a witness- more than once-of its destination. The true story goes like this: ..The jockey is in the. stall with the nag, attending to the saddle or other gear. In comes the trainer with a big bulge in his hip pocket. “Got the port for the horse?” asks the jockster. “Too right,” replies the trainer, drawing the cork. “Then give it to me. It will do me more good than the horse,’ says the jock. IHo tilts the bottle, and is about one-half way through its contents when the trainer butts in with, “Here! Have a heart, Charlie! What about me?” The bottle is passed over, and duly polished off. And, strange to say, the horse generally won when “labelled.” Some may put it down to mental telepathy, but the writer’s: opinion, after seeing Charlie’s many, vigorous finishes, is that port is a good thing—properly used!

“ONE TOO MAiNY.” ‘

Peering through a crack in the stall at a little up-country race meeting one time, a pal of the writer’s saw a trainer administering a “pill to a well-known horse. On hearing the news this scribe put a couple Of pounds on the crock—for luck. It was paying a ‘‘motser”—altogether too much' for a nag whose owner bet in “parcels”—and, as the position remained unchanged when the ■ tote windows closed, the writer began to .feel uneasy. Just then the trainer, a friend, was met, and he got the shock of his life when tackled, about the affair in the stall. “You’re not putting the boss crook, are you?” my pal asked him. “No fear,” he said, “it was the boss’ idea to try the stuff in this race, and if it acted w'e are going to empty out in the last! But keep this td yourself.” That sounded cheerful!' The race started, and to our joy,' our equine quickly rushed to the front, and in spite of its diminutive jockey’s efforts, won by a dozen lengths. The div. was a “pearler,” and we shouted hal'f-a-dozen times for the crestfallen trainer. Later in the afternoon, just before the last -race, the doors of the. stall were closed tightly, a guard set, and we guessed that there was “something doing” again. “Going to have another pop?” said my pal. “Not oft your life!” I replied;' “they can come at that’game too often.” The prad was a'screaming hot order, and we got “the office” from the trainer that “all was set,” and we didn’t “tumble” this time, backing the ‘‘next best.” The rest of the tale is easily told. The doped neddy tailed the field all the jvay, while “ours” strolled in, paying a Very fair price. Which all goes to show that you can get too much of a good thing. “UP THE TREE.” Fronting the lawn on a Wairarapa .racecourse one time there was a row of beautiful chestnut trees, and concerning these trees a story ■is ■ told. : It so happened that a prominent Rangitikei horseowner took a horse down to a race meeting there, and was anxious to have a trial run, but strictly on the quiet. Arriving on the track as day was breaking, he and his trainer spied out ,the ground to see that there were no touts while the jockey attended' to. the saddling-up.. Not a soul being in sight, instructions were given, and the horse cantered round to the five furlongs disc. Rain was beginning to -fall, and owner and trainer ran for the shelter of the end tree. The trial took place, and the trainer had just remarked, iSixty dead,” when a large chestnut-struck the owner, on the head. He looked up, and another plonked fair on his nose.- Then he moved aside and took a good look at the leafy branches of that tree. It did not 'takfe: him long to find out why the nuts were toppling down. There was somebody up that tree! “Come down out of that!” he roared, fingering his walking stick menacingly. For a few moments nobody stirred. Then there-was a rustle; followed by a breaking of branches, and a crash! The tout, for it -was a tout, came down with a thud, but, picking himself up smartly, broke all records for the outside gates, hotly pursued by the irate owner and trainer.' No, the horse did not pay the limit that day; but it won, and the tout and his party threw in for a good win. Years after the same owner took several horses to that course, but before sending them out for a trial he always-had a good look up those chestnut trees. THE DEAD-HEAT. 1 • The marker was busy brushing down the table, and 't]ie talk was of billiards. “You must have played a good stick in your younger days, Bill, remarked a looker-on to the man with the brush. ‘ Too ’right, I did,” replied the marker. ‘Tn fact I was never beaten by anybody iu New Zealand, and used to rattle my hundred every night, regular.” He dropped the brush and began to polish the pockqt -brasses. Nobody said anything for awhile. Then ,the looker-on asked, "Did you ever have a game-.with - Roberts, Bill?” “Too right; Roberts and; I t were /the evenest matched pair you ever saw,” Bill replied. We guffawed, and the marker looked round, offended. “You blokes can laugh,” he said with . withering scorn,, “but the last time Old John and I played 100 up,■ we- finished dead even.'* ‘‘You couldn’t; have done that!. / Somebody must have : got out /first!” asserted the looker-on. “Now, look here, young fellow,” said the marker, -shaking a tin of Brasso in the doubting one’s face, “you think you’re mighty clever, don’t you. Well, I tell you that we both got to 100 at once! And what’s more, I’ll prove it to you. Will you bet drinks on it ?” The wager was quickly taken up, and Bill produced from a dusty pool-pin box in the corner, a faded newspaper clipping, and began.to read: “The game between John Roberts and Bill Birch, played in the Imperial billiard room last evening, ended in a remarkable manner. Both players had scored 90 points, and a score or a miss would have put either out. It was Birch’s shot, and he essayed a ‘hard screw cannon. He hit the white a blow, and to the surprise of the onlookers, his .ball split in halves, one half dropping into a pocket, and the other half jumping off the table. There was a long argument afterwards, but it was eventu-. ally agreed that Birch had scored half of two points (which is ‘one’), and his opponent also half of two points (‘one’ being half of ‘two away’). And so the game ended: 100 all.” The drinks were on the man who doubted 'Bill’s word!