RUSH ON TOTE.

Star (Christchurch), Volume XLIV, Issue 190, 12 August 1931, Page 7

RUSH ON TOTE.

Wild Scenes at Ascot Racecourse. “ HOW THEY SCRAMBLED.” Amazing scenes took place at Ascot recently when the fashionable throngs j on England’s most famous racecourse j welcomed the “ tote ” with open arm? [ and pockets. The machine triumphed, says one ; London journal. The tote beat the j bookmakers flat, and thousands of the j fraternity watched disconsolately and | read their fate in flickering numbers , and listened to their swansong, the ■ humming of a thousand tiny wheels. ' Special trains from Waterloo bore the army of totemen to the course in the early morning, while the bookies, waiting for later and slower trains, packed the barriers and deluged them with : bitter gibes. I And then the course. To be ungram- ! matical and terse —the tote walked in. | Amazing scenes. Six-deep, tightjammed queues of top-hatted men and exquisitely-gowned women posi- ! avely stormed the windows. On the 1 Hunt Cup alone £16,846 was invested. Horses were saddled, numbers were up, and still the crowds pushed and scrambled towards the tote. The bell went. Down came the win j dows, and yet the hundreds still waited, murmuring and striving. One girl oi eighteen in a mauve trifle broke down I and cried. I Scores missed the race. It was noticed that the Prince of Wales, in the pad- ! dock, was doubled up with laughter at ' tne scene, and pointed joyfully at several hopeful individuals who waited outside the melee—their stakes clutch- ' ed in their moist hands, i And over it all—you could hear the j ' cacophony of the livid bookmakers. It > sounued nke a requiem. To those who say that the racing at | Ascot is a pleasant myth I offer the spectacle ol a middle aged woman in bright scarlet, from whose right shoulder the dress had slipped a woman with battle in her eye and a fractured bird of paradise in her hat —bursting from the mob and clutching the arm of an amiable bishop with the triumphal paean, “Artnur! I'm on! I'm on! I’m on* . . . Oh, Arthur!” But lam forgetting. There was nearly tragedy, it was nKe this. | / Frantic Officials. | Somewhere to the right of the royal enclosure a cioc±c cniiues eleven. It is a nasty, cracKed ciock witn a curse m ns ciapper, cHucKiing at tne leaaen sky auu iuc spitting ram. Frantic officials tore about in front of tne royai enclosure. The delightful gentlemen in green velvet and top hats Keeping watcii and ward on the royal gate scutcieu to saiety. Waiters, bandsmen, commissionaires blaspnemed into ' tne deluge.

The race-card men, who wear straw ! hats in mourning, shot into their kiosks 1 and popped out dripping and thwarted faces into the morning. Then w’ord came that owing to the rain the King had decided to cancel the procession 1 and come by car 1

Deep and utter gloom descended upon Ascot. Life was mud. The air was not as fresh as it was. Minutes of livid suspense. And then a sunbeam! One little sunbeam! Out pop the emerald gentlemen, out pop the waiters and commissionaires, out pop everybody. Whoopee! The first car crunched on the gravel and the women twittered in! In hundreds they came. Let us speak of them They are infinitely more interesting than the Ascot men, whose poise and appearance always suggest that they are returning from or are en route for the funeral of a beloved relative. Those women! Melodies woven into silk, and a rainbow squandered on a single skirt. Gold and silver and satin white throats and bright eyes. Sweet girls lovely in their plumage, and squat dowagers happy in their dressmakers Hats like pimples and hats like omelettes. Skirts like bell tents, and now and again skirts like baby’s pinafore. The Queen’s Dress. Wonderful complexions, mauve and pink and green and orange—and once, for an adorable minute—natural. Lovely, happy women! Orchid mauve was the Queen’s dress, with silver threads on her cor sage and her folded tissue toque shot with silver. Princess Mary wore her favourite tone of soft blue, and the Duchess of York, of the laughing eyes, was in rose red and ivory. Now, without cease, the glittering cars rolled up, and the swift servitor* handed out the women like bouquet? from a florist’s window. The sun shone, and all the women laughed. When this happens Ascot has found itself. “ The Gloomy Bookies.” And down the tiny hill tramped tired men. They were disconsolate. They went slowly home down that footpath to the station, their unpatronised satchels round their shoulders, their “ body guards ” slouching, listless, hands in pockets. There were hundreds of them tired, gloomy; trudging back down that hill. Fat men from Birmingham, thin men from Leeds, men from Coventry, Bradford, Manchester, men from the little back-street offices and the rooms of i twenty telephones. j It was finis. It was the Last March of the Bookies—and it was somewhat pathetic. __________________