A GOOD DAY.

New Zealand Illustrated Sporting & Dramatic Review, Volume V, Issue 236, 31 January 1895, Page 8

A GOOD DAY .

“ The first good day I really ever had,” the Major said, “ was not a little curious, because it all happened by the most ridiculous of flukes. I had a friend in those days who knew more of form, and of horses, and of tlie men who belonged to them, than any one I have ever met in my life. The absurd part of the thing was, that, though he gave me the absolute winners of five races out of six, and I was keen to follow him, and do anything he suggested—l knew nothing of racing in those days, or less than nothing, if there is such a degree of ignorance—the only time I won that day was when I completely misunderstood what he said, and acted on my misconception.” So spoke the Major, as we settled down after dinner in the billiard-room of one of the pleasantest, houses in the immediate neighbourhood of Newmarket one night during the Houghton Meeting. We had all done well on the Heath, and that is eminently provocative of appetite. The dinner had been admirable; those of us who retained a devotion to the ’74 Perrier Jouet had been gratified, and others who preferred the somewhat livelier ’BO had been considered by our thoughtful host; unless we were all egregiously mistaken, we knew of something in a Nursery next day tluit was bound to be useful to us—to anticipate, let me remark that it started at 100 to 12, and won in a canter —our hacks were ordered for half-past eight next morning, so that we could have one of those delightful mornings on the Bury Hills which are among the chief pleasures of the sport at headquarters; and to fill in the time till we were ready for the game of black pool, which was to wind up the evening, nothing could be better than a story from the Major. No one knew “ the ropes” more perfectly than lie. His judgment of a yearling was a surer guide to future results than the price it may have fetched at auction ; for not once, or twice, or thrice his prescience has be n vindicated when he has vowed he would not have in his stable a youngster that has been knocked down for thousands, and when, on the other 1 and, he has noted as a goodloiking colt or filly, sure to win races, some creature that, has been led round and round the ring before any one responded to the inquiries of MrTattersall:—“ Any advance on £150?” It. had seemed to us, the younger members of the party, that there never could have been a time when the Major did not know all about racing, and the story of his inexperienced days promised to be diverting. The Major began : — “ I dare say you fellow’s don’t know it, but you talk a language about horses that is Hebrew to an outsider. You don’t mean to do so! it isn’t silly swagger or side ; it comes simplest to you, that’s all. Well, it was because my poor old pal Wennington did so that I missed all his good things the first day I ever went racing, and finally tnrned up trumps. Wennington was a cousin of mine, and there were several r°asons why he wanted to do me a good turn if he could —he’s my brother-in-law now’, as you may know’—and when I first came to town he took me under his wing, and we had a very cheery dinner one night at the Drake. There was a Sandown Meeting on next day, and during dinner he and the other tw’o fellows talked horse all the time —I’ve done the same thing many nights a week since, but in those days our Hunt Steeplechases were the only events I had ever attended. I had casually read the racing news now and then, and knew the names of some of the princspal owners, and so forth, but that was the limit of my information. The anxiety of Wennington and the others for the special Standard was extreme, and when it came they began all over again a discussion about next day’s sp >rt. They were all members. I was not, of course ; but the idea of anyone doing anything else next day except going to Sandown obviously struck them as inconceivable, and so it w'as arranged that I was to meet them on the platform at Waterloo next morning at 12.15; and though 1 could not go into the Club Stand, I coidd see the races from the reserved enclosure, and meet Wennington in the paddock between times.

I went down in the Member’s train —no, I ought not to have done so, but as a matter of fact I still see people who have no business there doing so now—and it was agreed by Wennington and the others that the card was regularly laid out for backers—they couldn’t go wrong. One cautious man in the corner propounded the suggestiod that cards of this sort were the most dangerous; something unexpected usually happened, and the good things were ups^t; but it couldn’t be so to-day, they declared. Anyhow I was to meet my friend at an appointed place in the paddock before each race, and he would tell me ‘ the latest,’ he said. The whole process., of betting was strange to me ; and understanding this, when we got down he thoughtfully introduced me to Mr Fry, with the intimation that I was solvent and had a permanent address.

An excellent luncheon at a coach on the other side of the course formed an agreeable beginning to the day ; an 1 well in advance of the time set for the first race I was at our tryst, eager to begin the fascinating game of speculation. The crowd interested me a good deal, for everybody seemed be acquainted with everybody else. “ How are you? —know anything?” was the familiar greeting ; and to all appearance every one did kr ow something, for there was usually an answer which not seldom led to prolonged controversy. I found diversion also in the horses which were being led round and round, and occasionally taken off to be saddled, and then when the jockeys in their colqprs emerged, from their colours emerged from their weighing-room I began to appreciate still more fully the fact that I was really at a race meeting at last. Whilst I was gazing about, Wennington suddenly appeared, in evident haste. “ Oh, here you are. That’s all right! Now this is good for the Duke. You’d better hurry’ in and get on< the r price will soon shorten,” he said; and wit h a parting nod was off in the midst of the stream that had set in towards the

stands. “ Good for the Duke.” I had the wit to surmise that the Duke was not a horse but a horse’s owner, and so looked at my card. There were thirteen horses in the first race: two belonged to the Duke of-’Westminster, one to the Duke of Beaufort, one to the Duke of Hamilton, and nine to other sportsmen, a couple of whom were Earls; and as I read, the names I found one of the creatures was called Duke of Richmond. “ Good for the Duke.” Which Duke ? there was a plethora of Dukes, and how was I to discriminate ? Only six of the horses named on the card were going to run, I found, and Duke of Richmond was not one of them. It could not be he, at any ra'e; but what was it? Colours are easily distinguishable by us who know them ; but it’takes a perfect stranger a long time to realise what horses in the race correspond to those on the card, and then to fit them on to their numbers. The shouts of the bookmakers also tended to confuse me. There was a jello w jacket and a white cap, only at first I did not notice the cap, and had made that out to be the Duke of Westminster’s; there was a white and light blue hooped jacket —that was clearly the Duke of Beaufort’s ; but then there was a cerise and o’rev-sleeved jacket—that must be the Duke of Hamilton’s ; and for which Duke was it good? I was still pondering in doubt when the flag fell; something fti white got off with sxich a start that I felt certain the race was over, and that Wennington’s “ Good for the Duke ” was wrong; but on nearing home the white collapsed, the light blue hoops passed it, and the Duke of Beaufort had won, and won anyhow’, as even I* could see. Jt was good for the Duke, but it had not been good for me. The other Duke’s horse, I may observe, was tailed off, and my only consolation was that things might have been worse, for I might have bac cd him. It was rather annoying all the same, for I ought to have started my day with a nice little win ; however, better luck next time, I thought, and after a stroll round to see what was going on, I returned to the spot where I was to meet Wennington. A bell rang, the numbers went up—l had just found out that these proceedings were simultaneous —and he duly appeared.

“ A bad price ! I had to lay a shade of odds ; but. it was never in doubt, was it ? ” he began, and then continued with emphasis, “Now, look here, Cora will be a red-hot favourite. They are. going to back her, and of course She’s dangerous., on form ; but from what 1 hear this thing from the North is sure to beat her. They wouldn’t have sent it all this way for nothing, you know ” —and I felt this little explanation was a concession to thy ignorance. “ I think Cora looks light and tucked up, too. You do as you like about saving on her, only I should certainly back the other to win the money.”

“Thank you very much,” I replied, “but ” I was just going to formulate a request for more detail about the thing from the North, when, catching sight of someone to whom he evidently desired to speak, off he bolted. “ The thing from the North!” I studied my card, but could find no sort of indication as to where the horses came from. I had a copy of a sporting paper in my pocket, and sought enlightenment from that, but without effect. What could Ido ? Should Igo to a bookmaker and tell him in an offhand manner that I wanted to back the thing from the North ? What if he said. “ Which thing ? ” or put some other confusing question ? I did not like to ask strangers,in the enclosure, nor indeed did I know’ how to put ray question ; so I gave up the idea of betting, sat down to watch the race, and saw it won easily by a jockey in a violet and white belted jacket." As the winner passed the post, my neighbour, a cheery-looking old gentleman, turned to me and said, “ That was good, sir! I hope you were on it. I thought Mr Vyner would not have sent it here for nothing, for it’s in a race up North to-day that it couldn’t have lost; so I took the tip. Nice price, too, 5 to 1!” and he went off wagging his head.

This was very good fun for the people who understood the game, but it had rather a tendency to irritate me, for I seemed to be losing my chances. Wennington had doubtless been quite right, and was of course under the impression that, owing to his excellent advice, I had started on a good day. It wasn’t his fault that this was not the case ; only I must try to get some more definite description of the next horse he fancied. As I was wandering about the p iddoek I came across him before the time for our meeting “ Did you get fives ?” he asked. “ Won in a walk, didn’t it ? We’re doing well ! I had five ponies ; but I had a pony on the second, too, so I only won a handred. This next race is rather a puzzle, though ! I’m inclined to think the Danebury horse ought to win, but I’m searching about for some one who can tell me Oh, there he is ! I was looking for you,” he said to a gentleman, with short gray whiskers, so well preserved that middle-aged rather than elderly might best describe him. “ Does Tom fancy his much ?” “ Yes, he does a bit,” was the reply. “ He’s having a tenner on ; but Joe thinks he’s sure to win with his.” “ It .ran badly last time it was out, didn’t it? Was it right at Newmarket?” continued Wennington. “ No, it was left,” the old gentleman answered. “ Ours has a chance, but it isn’t a good thing, I’m afraid. It’s behind the one that ran yesterday.” “ That can’t win then, I should think,” Wennington observed as his friend strolled on his way, “ and I know that Joe’s was well tried before he ran at the last Newmarket meeting. You’d better stick to "that one, I think ; I shall; but don’t have much on. It’s rather ah uncertain race.” “.But —wait a second —which is Joe’s?” I asked, as he saw another friend in the distance, and was about to set off after him, as one has to do if one wants to avoid missing a man in a crowd. Still I was determined to arrive at something this time. “ Why, there —that chestnut mare ! ” he replied, and he was gone.

What was the summary of my inspiration this time ? That Joe’s would win ; and I hopefully turned to my card to find out which was Joe’s. This quest proved vain. There was ,Mr T. Cannon’s b ”c Mischievous, and 1 had a vague idea that this was the Danebury horse to whichallusion had been made. From some dim corner of my memory, too, I garnered the faint recollection that T. Oannon’had. a brother nam.e'd Joseph, who trained horses; but there was no Mr J. Cannon —no other Mr Cannon at all—on the card. Yet a chestnut mare had been pointed out to me by Wennington as “ Joe’s.” As a matter of fact there were two chestnut mares walking the circle with other horses ; one of them w’as “ Joe’s ” ; and though ” I did not like asking the boys in charge what the animals were, I had seen other people make the inquiry, and determined to follow suit. “ What’s that ?” I asked, when the first chestnut mare came round. “ Crescent,” said the boy. And I found on the card, “ Lord Hartington’s Crescent, 3yrs. straw.” That was not “ Joe’s ”at any rate ! “What’s that?” I asked again, when ' the other came round. “Spitfire,” answered the boy; and on reference I found again, “ Baron M. de Tuyll’s Spitfire, 4yrs. white, black belt, red cap.” That could not be “ Joe’s,” I reflected, so here was another mystery j What did Wennington mean ? He had left me under the impression that I knew all about it this time, at any yate ; but I was os much confused as I had been about “ the Duke ” and “ the thing fr m the North.” I sauntered pensively back to my enclosure, where betting was brisk, and heard the names of several horses as I walked down by the rails ; but before I could hit on a way of elucidating the mystery, of “ Joe’s,” the field had started, and Spitfire won ; Mischievous second. I walked to the paddock to see them .return, and as I watched the unsaddling of the winner, found the old gentleman who had previously spoken to me by side. “ She’s come on, that mare has, since Joe’s has had her,” he remarked, and seeing no other way of arriving at a solution to the mystery, I inquired who trained the animal now ; - receiving for answer, “ Why, Joseph Cannon ! ” spoken in the sort of tone that I might have expected had I begged to know if he could tell me what was the first letter of tne alphabet. ■ Wennington appeared as usual —he was as kind and attentive as he could be, and he looked particularly pleased with himself and the world in general. He suggested a drink at the coach over the way, and thither we went for the purpose, finding friends who liad done well and badly, and, in fact, met with the varying fortune which accompanies Turf speculations. As we left to cross the course, he said, impressively: “ Now, I think Herbert’s colt is sure to win this, but don’t say a word about it’ and you needn’t be in a hurry to back it—lt won't be favourite, and you’ll getter a better price by waiting. You see- ” “ First of all, tell me who Herbert is,” I interrupted. “ You see. I don’t know people’s names, and I may make a mistake —it’s very easy to get confused, I find.” “ Of course it is, old chap ; but I thought you knew that Herbert was running one of his to-day —Herbert Newstead, who dined with us last night and came down to-day. He bought this colt at Doncaster last year; it ran fairly well at Ascot, but it hasn’t been out since ; however, he galloped it last week, and I don’t see what’s to beat it. I shall have a dash. You go in and wait till the betting has settled down a bit. It looks as if we were going to have a real. good day.” He nodded cheerily and went in at the Members’ gate, whilst I pursued my way to my own stand. This time, at least, there could be no mistake ! Mr Herbert Newstead’s colt was the animal I had to back. It was a comfort to be on the right track at last! If he had said Herbert’s colt, I might have searched for a Mr Herbert and not found one, or worse, perhaps found such a name and backed his horse ; but about Mr Herbert Newstead I could not blunder. The animal’s name, however, I had not heard, and so pulled out my card. Where -was Mr Herbert Newstead ? I read the conditions’: “ National Breeders’ Produce Stakes,” &c,. and glanced down the names of owners. At first I failed to find it, looked again with more care, aad then a third time with scrupulous minuteness. It was not there !

No name distantly resembling Newstead was on the card ! My ears could not have deceived me. Most assuredly Wennington said Herbert Newstead, and of course I had been with him and knew he had horses—one of his was entered for a race earlier in the day, but had not run. What, could Wennington have ‘meant ? Once more I read out every name on the card, but Newstead was not there, that was certain ! It was the most perplexing thing that had ever happened to me, atfd I watched the race in a dazed sort of way. A'jockey in green and white sleeves won by a neck after a stiflish fight, and I found by the card that the winner belonged to Mr S. Simons Harrison; so Wennington was wrong for once, and he was going to have a dash, he said, which I knew meant, a big bet. Great was my surprise, therefore, to see him with a beaming countenance as he and Newstead watched the winner being led away. “ I hope you had a good race,” Newstead said in cheery tones. “What price did you get?” Wennington broke in.

“ Why, I had no bet,” I began ; you said— —” “ No bet! My dear old boy, why on earth didn’t you? I could not have told you more than I did, and the first thing Herbert said after the race was that he hoped you were well on. Why didn’t you bet ? ” “ But that’s Mr Simons Harrison’s,” I replied. “ I couldn’t find Newstead’s name on the card, and had no idea which was his horse; in fact, I couldn’t make out that he was running one. Why is Mr Simons Harrison put. down ? ” “ I see ! Well, that is bad luck!” Wennington returned. “ I’m awfully sorry ! Simon Harrison

is the breeder—the man Herbert bought it from him last year, and he entered it, you see. He’s down as the owner of Stirrup Iron, that belongs to the Duke of Westminster, you see. It never Struck me that you wouldn’t understand.” “ I’m very sorry,” Newstead struck in. I wasloping you had won a good stake.” “It’s most unfortunate!” Wennington reioined. “ However, look here. They tell me the Stanton horse can’t be beat for the next race.’’ “ Whose horse ? ” I inquired—“ Stanton ?” “ Wadlow,” he replied. “He as good as the second in the Hunt Cup—however, I needn’t go into details about that. It’s no good waiting for the last race. They’ll be only two runners, and they’ll lay 20 to. 1 on one, so we’ll meet at the coach after this if you like. Rowsley has plenty of room, he says, and will drive us home. I wish you’d backed that, but it can’t be helped !” Once more I was left to my own devices, and returned to my accustomed place in the enclosure. Out came my card. Which was the Stanton horse Wadlow ? He said it’s name was Wadlow, surely ? I searched the most puzzling document I had ever came across, but there was no Wadlow ’ It ought not to have been such a puzzle either, for there were only three runners, 3, Lord Bradford’s Mainsail; 7, Mr L. de Rothchild s Diano; 10, Mr Manton’s Roseleaf. Of course ! That was it. “ Manton ” was a misprint for “Stanton.” Even in k carefully edited papers misprints are not infrequent, they are indeed found in books that had passed through several hands in course of preparation, so what more likely, than that they^should, be common in such an ephemeral publication as a race card ? How “ Wadlo.v ” came in I did not understand; for certainly Wennington had said Wadlow. There was the old gentleman who had told me who trained Spitfire—perhaps Wadlow was also a trainer ? I would as'<, and frame my question artfully, I thought. “ Wadlow’s is running, isn’t it ? ” I remarked carelessly. . “ Yes, certainly —it is indeed ! he answered with a look of curiosity at me, and a wave of his hand to the number-board. Evidently I was right this time—“ Manton ” was a misprint for <• Stanton.” I would go and interview Mr Fry, who, I was gratified to find, knew me at once. “ I’ve been expecting the pleasure of seeing you, sir,” he said. “ What can I do for you ? I’ll take 3to I—l’ll take 11 to 4 from you sir—--5 to 1 Diana, and 6 to 1 Roseleaf!” I hesitated, not being sure of the phraseology I ought to employ. What he meant by “ taking ” 1 did not understand. However, I could not go wrong if I made my wants known in plain English, so I replied, “ I want to back Mr Manton’s Roseleaf.” “Yes, sir. I’ll lay you 6to I—that’s a good price. Six hundreds—six ponies— six monkeys ?” he rejoined. What was a monkey ? I wondered. A pony, I had gathered, was £25, because Wennington had told me he had made £IOO by winning five ponies and losing one; but what was a monkey? Zoologically regarded, it was a smaller animal, and therefore, I had no doubt, was a smaller sum. “ I’ll have the monkeys,” I somewhat timidly rejoined. I thought he opened his eyes a bit, and the bookmaker by the side of him looked at me rather hard, it struck me, though I had no idea why ; however, he quietly observed, “ Yes, sir; six monkeys Roseleaf. Thank you, sir.” As I returned to my seat I felt that I had an entirely new interest in the game. I should indeed rather have liked to know the precise sum I had speculated, but that gave me no uneasiness, for 1 reflected again that if people named sums of money after animals there could not reasonbp much difference if the animals were about the eatijie size; besides, Wennington had been so •extraordinarily correct in his judgment that it -seemed as if he could not go wrong. I watched the horses canter down to the post and they were very soon sent on their journey back again. The blue jacket led till they turned the corner, then its bearer dropped back, the other two came on together; suddenly the rider in the white and scarlet sleeves got up his whip and began to use it; the jockey in the all scarlet seemed to be regarding his companion’s proceedings with much interest, but his horse needed no coercion, and gradually drawing away, cantered home well clear of bis follower. Well, that was all right! Up went No. 10, and, a good deal better satisfied with myself, I walked over to the coach. “Well, old chap,” was Wennington’s greeting, as I found him—looking strangely glum, it struck me, and I wondered why he should do •so —lighting a cigarette preparatory to climbing ■up to his place, “ that’s an upset and no mistake ! I thought it was the best thing I had ever known racing. Can’t make it out, by Jove! and, confound it, I laid three hundred to one. How many times I’ve sworn I’d never lay odds ! I’d won just over a monkey, too, on the day. However, one can’t always be right!” “But,” I rejoined, in a condition of much •surprise, “ wasn’t that the one you told me to back ? ” His observation was incomprehensible to me under the circumstances.

“ No, my dear boy. Roseleaf! Most certainly it wasn’t. I told you I thought it was a certainty for Mainsail —1 didn’t think Roseleaf had a hundred to one chance. Surely you never backed the winner ? ” “ Yes, I did. You never said Mainsail. You said the ‘ Stanton ’ horse, and I thought there was a misprint on the card and they had put ■‘Manton’ instead. You said something about Wadlow, but I made out that he probably trained Roseleaf’. What’s a monkey ? ” Wennington looked at me hard, glanced at Newstead on one side of him, at Rowsley on the other, and then resumed his gaze at me. “A monkey, my boy, £500,” he replied. -«< Have you been been betting monkeys without knowing what you were doing by any chance ? ’’ “ I did that time,” I answered ; “ but I had no idea it was anything like that. I thought it was something smaller than a pony.” “ What! five monkeys Roseleaf ? he inquired -in tones of amazement. “ Six,” I replied.

“ Well, by Jove, that is a caulker! ” Wennington exclaimed. “ Capital, old chap ! That’s what I call a very pretty little bet! ” Newstead broke in, while Kowsley and a couple of his friends, who were going back with us, burst intoH hearty laugh. “And what have you done to-day besides ? ” Wennington continued with wide-open eyes. “ That’s the only bet I’ve had all day.” “ The only bet? Why, I certainly told you every other winner,” • he rejoined. “Yes, I suppose you did,” I replied; “but you told me in a way I couldn’t understand. You said ‘the Duke’s horse,’ and there were two Duke’s with horses ”

“ You couldn’t have thought I meant you to back a half-broken-down hurdle-jumper like that thing of Hamilton’s—but of course you wouldn’t know. I never thought of that,” he interpolated. “ Then you said something about a ‘ horse from the North’ that I couldn’t identify. I told you why I didn’t back Newstead’s ; and then I didn t know why you called a horse belonging to a Hungarian baron ‘ Joe’s,’ ” I explained. “ Racing men often speak of a horse as if he belonged to his tramer,” Newstead remarked for my edification. By the time the horses were put to, Rowsley had picked up the reins, and the others were climbing to their places. “Well, so the result of your not understanding is that you’ve won £3,000 ! I’m deuced glad of it, old boy,” Wennington said, slapping me on the back. “ That’s what I call a good day ! ”