A HAPPY OMEN.

New Zealand Illustrated Sporting & Dramatic Review, Volume VIII, Issue 370, 26 August 1897, Page 13

A HAPPY OMEN.

By W.C.P. in Sporting Sketches. Mr Calvert, of Bridegroom fame, is not by any means the only owner who has had two horses entered for the same race. For the Crumpshire Stakes of 18 —, Sir Joyce Bunhill had two strings to his bow. One of them had been entered as Plum Pudding, while the other rejoiced in the companionable name of Brandy Sauce, for Sir Joyce was bound to have his little joke upon every possible occasion. The motives which impel men to own racehorses are various—love of sport. love of excitement, ambition ; but it is extremely probable that the b ironet would have found these all utterly incompetent to sustain his interest in the Turf had he not possessed an enormous appetite for practical joking. He never made a bet, the whole of his winnings he gave to charitable institutions, and he seldom saw a race run, caring little whether he lost or won. His sole enjoyment in owning horses was to fool the public, and it is a mcot point whether it would have afforded him the more gratification to win the Derby with a rank outsider or to lose it with a hot favourite. Mind you, there was nothing low down about the way he ran his horses, and he never scratched. Whenever a horse of Sir Joyce Bunhill’s faced the starter, it ran on its merits; but during its training and trials he would spare neither trouble nor ingenuity to gull the touts. Backers hated him cordially for the little surprise packets he was constantly flinging amongst them ; and the more they growled the keener was the baronet’s delight. Plum Pudding and Brandy Sauce were both colts, bays. In appearance they so nearly resembled each other that it would have been a matter of considerable difficulty to have distinguished one from the other, had it not been for one or two slapdashes Dame Nature had bestowed upon them with the whitewash brush in turning out the finished article. But there the resemblance ended for one was a flyer, while the other was as slow as a man in boots. Plum Pudding’s quotation for the Stakes was 2 to 1, and it would have been odds on if the horse had belonged to any other owner; while Brandy Sauce figured low down in the betting list at 30 to 1. If Sir Joyce Bunhill had two strings to his bow, Judith Fairlough had two beaux in her string, and Sir Joyce was one of them. The other was Tom Phillipson, the young village doctor. Judith was the niece of “ Old ” Staunton, the bookmaker, and lived with him. No more respectable or respected gentleman was there than old Staunton, in spite of his profession, in the village where he elected to make his home. He was charitable, a churchwarden, a man of culture, and wealthy. He and the baronet were close friends, and he strongly favoured Sir Joyce’s suit, while the lovely Judith rather favoured the young doctor. “ Now, look here, Judy,” Staunton said to the girl, “ Sir Joyce is r"’ jod-hearted fellow, with plenty of means, and ill give you every comfort. My advice to you is to take a good husband while you have the chance. Now, Phillipson’s a decent lad, and I don’t dislike him, but, you know, he can’t give you the things you’re accustomed to. Maybe he’ll get on by-and-bye — and maybe he won’t —and, anyhow, I shan’t let you marry him until he has money enough to make a fair start.” “But, uncle,” urged Judy, coaxingly patting the part of his bald head where generosity dwelt, “you’ve plenty of money, and ” “ And I’ll be shot if 1 give it that young scamp to marry you with,” he exclaimed. ■ And so, for the Matrimonial Stakes, Staunton’s tongue tipped Bunhill, while Judy’s heart tipped Tom Phillipson. And so, too, it came to pass. that one afternoon, as Judy came in from paying a call, she met the young doctor in the hall, gloomy and despondent, after having had a brief interview with old Staunton. “ I’ve done it, Judy,” he exclaimed, mournfully. “ What ? ” she asked, her little heart pitpatting strangely. “ Asked your uncle for you.” “ And he said ? ” “ Call again when you’ve got ten thousand pounds, or words to that effect,” he replied bitterly. “ And you have got ” “ Barely ten thousand shillings.” The girl was silent —she was thinking hard. Only the evening before she had accidentally overheard a scrap of conversation between her uncle and Sir Joyce, in which the words “ Plum Pudding,” “ Brandy Sauce,” and “ pot o’ paint,” had been alarmingly frequent. In short, the baronet had been confiding his hugest, choicest joke to old Staunton—how he had fooled the watchers into believing that it was Plum Pudding which was the flyer, whereas, in reality, it was Brandy Sauce that was the “ pea.” Having by mere chance obtained possession of knowledge never intended for her ears, old Staunton had easily gained her promise not to divulge a hint of it either by word of mouth or in writing. Never was she more tempted to break her word, but a woman’s ingenuity showed her a way out of the difficulty. “ If you could only win ten thousand on the Crumpshire I” she murmured. “ If ! ” echoed Tom, with a very big interjection after it. “ The only horse that has any chance, according to the papers, is Plum Pudding, and —” “ Bother the papers!” Judy exclaimed, and, looking him full in the face, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, she went on : “Tom Phillipson, do you love me ? ” “ Judy ! You know—” “ And have you implicit faith in me ?” “ Yes—yes ! a thousand times, yes.” “ Well, you’ve heard of men being influenced by omens to back horses ? ” “ Of course I have, Judy.” “ Well, you go home, change your things, and c ome back here to dinner. Sir Joyce is coming, a nd if you see anything that strikes you as an

omen, put all the money you can raise at the best odds you can get.” Then she vanished. * * * * It was in the drawing room after dinner, and Judy was more bewitching than ever in a cunning toilet of soft black gauze. From the lace at her throat to the hem of her skirt, where the tips of two dainty little kid shoes peeped timidly out, she was all in black. “So your horse is certain to win the Crumpshire, Sir Joyce ?” remarked Phillipson, idly. “Dead sure,” chuckled the baronet, tickled at the idea of fooling his rival along with the rest of the public. “Oh ! bother horses,” exclaimed Judy. “ Have you seen the latest waltz step ? They danced it at Mrs Walburton’s the other evening. It’s quite the newest thing—goes something like this ! ” And the irrepressible girl jumped up from her seat into the middle of the floor. With one quick glance at the young doctor, she seized her dusky skirts, and, dropping her eyes with a soft blush, just raised her dress sufficiently to reveal a pair of the daintiest of daintiest ankles clad in spotless white silk hose, as she went through the new step with an enchanting grace. “ Bravo ! ” shouted old Staunton. “ I really must learn that step,” exclaimed Sir Joyce. But Phillipson was puzzling his brains. What could the omen mean ? His head was in a whirl with the glimpse of tiny tripping feet and twinkling white ankles, but he must read the riddle. He ran through the names of all the horses entered for the Crumpshire Stakes —not one did the graceful little gyrations suggest. He was in despair for the remainder of the evening, and it was not until he was leaving and the door had closed behind him t hat the truth burst upon him like a flash —Two white stockings ! Brandy Sauce had two white stockings ! Brandy Sauce at 30 to 1! The chance was most improbable ; and yet it was the only solution to the riddle; and, besides, he had noticed Sir Joyce’s chuckle as the baronet asserted that his horse (he did not say which horse) was a dead cert. No time like the present! —and with an honourable bookmaker close at hand, too ! Phillipson turned back, “Mr Staunton, since I left here an idea has got hold of me. 1 want to put three hundred and fifty on Sir Joyce’s horse for the Crumpshire,” he began, when he and the bookmaker were closeted together. “ Phillipson,” replied Staunton, seriously, thinking that he must surely refer to Plum Pudding, “ don’t do it. I know more than you. Take my advice, and don’t risk your money.” “ But I’m determined,” Phillipson replied. “ What odds will you give me ?” “ Well, if there’s no stopping you, I’ll give you this morning’s prices.” “Then I’m backing Brandy Sauce for three hundred and fifty at thirty to one.” “ Brandy Sauce ! ” gasped the bookmaker. “That young witch, Judy, has been telling you—” “ Not a word! ” “ Then she’s been writing to you ! ” “ Not a line. A quarter of an hour since I had no idea of backing Brandy Sauce, and I have had no communication with your niece in the meantime whatever. In fact I only made up my mind about it after the truth dawned upon me — and Sir Joyce’s own words had something to do with it—in leaving a few minutes ago.” “ Well, I never broke my word yet, and I suppose I must book the bet,” murmured old Staunton ; upon which the doctor bade him good-night and cheerfully assured him he would not forget to call again as soon as he was worth ten thousand pounds. Of course, Brandy Sauce won the Crumpshire with a good bit in hand, and Tom Phillipson “ called again” many a time. Sir Joyce Bunhill was not at the marriage, but he sent the bride a beautiful lady’s hack for a wedding present.