Big Race Gamble That Failed

Taranaki Daily News, 14 January 1935, Page 12

Big Race Gamble That Failed

FROM £60,000 UP TO £20,000 DOWN

ALL the racing world in. England has , been talking about a young man who shot across the Turf horizon like a meteor, dazzling manjr by his brilliance, and, true to the idiosyncrasies of these celestial phenomena, left an inky blackness behind, him (says the “Daily Mail”) r For a number of bookmakers that blackness can be translated into £ s. d.—a matter of some £20,000 or more, for that is the sum the young man owes them. . His name is Jack Green, or rather it should be said that is the name he used for his Turf transactions. His real name is Greenboam. That, however, is only an interesting detail, but it may awaken memories in many people s minds. Green, who is about 30 years of age, made his Turf debut early in the flatracing season and opened accounts with 10 or a dozen bookmakers in various parts of the kingdom, including Glasgow and Birmingham, and, of course, London. , ,- . , He had, from the bookmakers point of view, uncanny luck. He rarely backed a loser, and in one week alone relieved them of their hardly earned money to the extent of £15,000 by winning bets. By xhe time Ascot arrived, Green was a racing notability. “Lucky Green, he was called. He took Mill House, Taplow, for the royal meeting, and during the week was a prominent figure on the Heath. . , ._ , Everyone knew his magnificent motor-car and liveried chauffeur. His meteoric career was at its height. He chartered a private aeronlane to take himself and family to Juan-les-

Pins, on the French Riviera, for a holiday, but he was back in England for Goodwood and had a bungalow at East Wittering, Sussex, for the week. He entertained his guests royally, engaging an expert staff from a West End hotel to minister to their needs. He did everything on a regal scale. His parties at West End hotels, attended by members of the regular racing fraternity, were things to talk about. The last was at the May Fair Hotel in celebration of his wedding anniversary. With the coming of autumn Green’s remarkable gift of picking winners began to leave him. Instead of receiving winning cheques from the bookmakers, who during the summer paid him something like £60,000, he had to face losing accounts. His losses mounted up and up and the bookmakers began to complain that they had difficulty in getting their money from Green. When pressed for payment he—so they say—would give ai cheque and promptly make another bet for a large sum in the hope that he had found a winner which would recoup his loss, the usual expedient of the losing gambler. And, as usual, the horses lost, but what was more serious for the bookmakers was the fact that they found themselves owed still more money; Green made a last desperate effort to retrieve his fortunes, in part if not in whole, by backing Mary Tudor for the Cambridgeshire, but -that, as all the world well know, was a useless effort. Now he owes the bookmakers £20,000, and they are wondering when they are likely tq be paid.