TALES OF THE TURF

Taranaki Daily News, 23 December 1932, Page 10

TALES OF THE TURF

STORY OF THE “DEAD ’UNS”

RACEGOER’S BOGEY.

THE ONE THAT CAME HOME.

(By

“Hurry On.”)

As to what his ideas were of a life hereafter I was never really able to discover, but there was no shadow of doubt that my friend Jim Noael was a profound believer in the presence of ‘ dead ’uns” on racecourses. Every event fairly reeked with them, the stipes were blind, they always had been and always would be, but he knew, at least he always said he knew—after the race was over. This of course is not over-difficult at times. I can remember a day some years ago when a rather celebrated actress was handed over to my care to be given the ‘dinkum oil.’ As luck would have it the favourites were having a'. great run that day and by getting her to back two horses in each race, the charming lady was visiting the pay-out windows all the time, but the dividends small, and after the sixth race she came to me and said, "Now look here, I want to back an outsider. I do not care much if it wins or loses.” “Well,” I said, “there is a horse in this race that can win and win easily, but I am afraid that it will be ‘dead.’ It will be paying a good price but if you are willing to take the risk, back it. She did and the horse finished fourth. I saw her ten minutes later and she was tremendously excited. “You were right,” she exclaimed, “it could have won if they had wanted it, even I could see that.” I told the story to one of the stewards that night, and strange to say he did not see the joke. But to get back to my friend. . ■ Every race meeting he had invariably two or three- ‘dead certs,’ absolutely ‘gilt edged’ investments. They had usually been saved up for months ; and were going to have their heads let loose at last. Like all morals of this soft, they usually managed to get licked, and when next I ran into Jim and inquired solicitously what had happened he always told the same story. “Yes,” he would say, “they were dead, absolutely dead, the jockey and the crowd behind them went in and backed the winner. It is no use arguing over it; I know for certain. They are the biggest gang of highwaymen on the turf; they are so crooked that they would go into a quiet corner and, tell themselves lies.” Really the number of dead horses that Jim backed would keep the Auckland Zoo going for months. However, like nearly all men who follow the gee-gees, he was always full of hope. “Now look here,” he set off, “I have something for Saturday. Fair dinkum it’s a world’s certainty. It’s going to be a shame to take the money; just daylight robbery. The books might just as well pay but now.” In vain I argued that it had no form that would even suggest that it might have an outside chance and that it had not been in the first ten a week ago.

“That’s just, it,” .he replied, “he was dead; been running dead for months.” Jim knew all the wiles and tricks of these owners and trainers.

Saturday came and went. Jim’s world’s certainty ran a great race , but was just beaten. I naturally commiserated with him over the result when I: met him on Monday, morning. “Hard luck,” I said, , “you nearly pulled off a good one that time. You were bn a that time.” His look of scorn nearly withered me on the spot. “Trier!” he almost shouted. “Trier! Why the flaming horse was dead. Why man, a guy that falls out of an aeroplane from a height of 10,000 feet into a stone quarry could not have less life in him than that brute.” In vain I pointed out that he had taken command a furlong from home and had been rather unlucky to have just been beaten on the post. r ; He looked at me with a look of pity on his face. . “You do not know the first thing about this racing game. If you knew even the A B C of it there would be no need to tell you that the whole art of riding ‘dead ’uns’ is to finish a close third. The thing must never be made too obvious. Why, even the stipes have been .known to see things.” The last time that I saw Jim was nearly a year ago now, the day of the last Wellington Cup. I came upon him standing in front of the totalisator just before the cup race. ,

“Well,” I said, “how are you getting on?” Strange to say he had been doing quite well. He had backed the winner of the first event and had collected Head' Lady’s good dividend in the Stakes. . I was puzzled as to what was wrong;' he had never mentioned ‘dead ’uns.’ ,1 was wondering whether like Conan Doyle he was now a believer in the dead coming to life again when I casually mentioned that I was off to have a modest investment on' Compris. This started him off.. “What, Compris? I can tell you one thing. He is dead to-day. Now look here old man, I have the dinkum oil here. Peter Jackson’s the thing. They’re all dead for him. Now don’t argue with me; I know what I am talking about.”

“But look,” I. expostulated, “see the price that he is paying.” 1 “That’s just it,” he replied in a most confidential tone. “They are letting him alone to-day, they have gone in with the Peter Jackson crowd and then they will have a pop to-morrow. You know it was lucky for you that you fell in with me; you would have done that quid of yours cold.” Luckily for me I had still in my mind many vivid recollections of Jim’s tips and his alleged ‘dead ’uns’ and I proceeded on my way and backed Compris. I was standing by Jim while the race was being run and I turned and watched his face as Compris, desperately ridden, just arrived in time to head off Jaloux on the post. It was a study. He could not make it out. Feeling very contented, especially after the dividend had been hoisted, I suggested that the rider had made an error of judgment; he had meant to run second or third but had made his run a little too soon. I reminded him of what he had told me about the art of riding ‘dead ’uns.’ But he was not to be consoled and for once in his life displayed some real judgment. “No,” he said, “my information was all wrong; he was a goer all right.” SHE MADE NO MISTAKES. Two well-known New Zealand sportsmen on a visit to the Old Country naturally went to Epsom on Derby Day, and by dint, of a little careful discrimination and some good information, both had a small put on the winner of the big three-year-old classic. After collecting they proceeded to the bar and decided to have a really good whisky—not one of those small English measured nips. They did so. One grandiloquently tossed over a ten shilling riote and was rather surprised to find as he walked out that he had only been given one shilling change. “Rather hot, isn’t it,” he remarked to his friend; “four-and-six each for those whiskies.”

“By jove it is,” came the reply, “the barmaid must have made a mistake. We will go back after the next race, have another, and tell her about it.” So they duly paraded again half-an-hour later and ordered the good whis-

kies again, tossing over another ten shilling note. Once more a shilling was tendered as change.

“Now look, my dear,” said the New Zealander, looking at the shilling, “have you not made a • mistake?” Her reply was instantaneous. “Oh, Thank you, sir,” and she pocketed the coin.

The two whiskies were swallowed very quickly and the two drinkers never, returned to the bar at Epsoin. Even fivers on Derby winners do not go far when you are ’paying four-and-six for a spot. . . ■ . . • ■ • ■ ARMS i AND THE -MAN. . There are always plenty of people who go about this world living by their wits, always endeavouring to get something at somebody else’s expense. No class has to be' more wary of this type than the proprietor of an hotel. He is always, for some reason or other, looked upon as fair, game, possibly because he seldom takes action. He has no liking to advertise his folly or lack. of shrewdness to the general public. He just grins and bears it and debits the amount in the ledger to ‘experience.’ .... . . . ’ Many of the old inns of England have stories concerning them, and these are circulated to-day far and wide in an endeavour to attract tourists and motorists. The following story is' told of a small inn in Rutland in the good old coaching days. On,day the coach set down a passenger who put up at the inn and charmed everyone with an abundant flow of wit and good stories, no doubt with judicious hospitality. Having established the right atmosphere of confidence and good fellowship, he let slip in to the willing ear of the management a promise that before he left the inn he would impart an invaluable, secret, no less than the art of drawing mild and bitter, ale. from the same .barrel. Whether the innkeeper swallowed the story or not, history does not relate, but it . may perhaps be inferred , that our gentlepian discerned a more fruitful field for his harvest in the economical instincts of the lady of the house; at ail events he selected for the moment for his departure a time when the innkeeper was absent from the irnx. . '

Having deposited his luggage at the door ih readiness for the coach, he sought out the unsuspecting lady and courteously -offered to disclose the coveted secret, whereupon they secured a gimlet and proceeded to the cellar for a practical demonstration.

.“Now,” says our philantropist, “we make a hole on ■ the left side—so —and you ram your thumb against it. Having done that we make a hole on the other side—so—and -you ram your other thumb against that—but one moment, we have forgotten the spile-pegs; You hold on tight and I will slip up and fetch them.” When some time later the innkeeper returned to discover his; better half still embracing the beer barrel, while of the kindly demonstrator and his baggage there-was no trace, we can only imagine what was said, and one more innkeeper had to realise that he had played the part of mine host ait his own and not the expense of his-guest. WINNER ALL THE WAY. The clerk rose’from his chair for the fortieth time, to ’answer some trivial complaint or other, to hear a mild voice ask, “Is that the office of the gas company?” i- ' “Yes,” came “the answer, very sharply, “this is the gas company’s office, and what. complaint have you to make?” “Oh, none, really,” came the reply, “I only want to know when. the. entries close for, the race meeting.” “Race' meeting! What race meeting? Didn’t I tell you that this was the office of the . gas comjfeny. We know nothing about race; '-meetings. Haven’t you' got the -wrong number?”

But the man on the other end of th® line was not to be shaken off. “I know that I am speaking to the office of the gas company, but you have not yet answered my question. When do entries close* for the race meeting?” The clerk, who was now firmly convinced that the man had had a bad time punting and had temporarily lost his mental equilibrium, decided to humour him a little. “What do you want to know for?” he queried quietly. "Well,” came the answer, “when it does come off, I have something really good to punt on, something that could give all .the rest half-way start and then come in backwards" :The clerk’s interest was now properly up. He liked a quiet tip on a good thing himself. “I say,” he said, “what is it?” Then came the reply. “This gas meter of mine, it’s the fastest thing on . earth.”

HOW THE VICAR FOUND OUT CONTENTS OF FAMILY BIBLE. The vicar had called. The lady of the house was not quite ready to receive him, and'whUe the good man was waiting the youngest daughter, aged seven, was left to entertain him. The vicar in his kindest tone asked if she went to Sunday school. . “Oh yes” she replied; “I go every Sunday.” .. “And have you a Bible at home here?” was the next question. “Oh yes, sir, a lovely big one, with pictures in it.” “Now my little girl, do you know what is in that Bible?” The reply came quickly and confidently. “Oh; yes, I know everything that is in it.” ; Thinking that this was rather remarkable for a lass of only seven years, the vicar pursued the question. “Now my little lady, you tell me what is in that Bible of yours.” She looked cautiously around. “You won’t let on to the others, will you?” “Well,” she said, coming up close to him and continuing in her most confidential manner, “first there is a picture of my sister’s boy friend. He’s nve; well so sister says. Then there is that secret receipt that ma has for vanishing cream, it’s a snitcher, too, ’ and then there’s dad’s two tickets in the Irish sweepstake. That’s all, or it was all when I looked last week.” FOUR CLASSES OF HORSES. With the close proximity of the Taranaki race meetings a short and simple classification of the different types of the racehorse might not be out of place. They can roughly be divided into four classes. ' (1) Those who cannot gallop on the track or in a race. They have only one good quality; they do not kid us to back them. They are expensive to their owners but that is not our look-out. (2) Those that cannot go on the track but "produce the goods with the colours up. This class is a useful sort, but you have to know them. (3) Those who can do anything, on the track but nothing in a race. These are the reasons why bookmakers always look prosperous. (4) Those that can gallop on the tracks and do the same in a race. This is unfortunately a small class but supplies the reason why we have sometimes some money left. We could, of course, classify all the horses racing under these heads, but on second thoughts refrain from so doing. Our ideas might not coincide with those of some owners and trainers and we might very easily land ourselves in trouble.