A sporting trip to Arcadia

Chapter I

“Come with me,” said Snooker, impulsively, “into the rural districts, and we will frisk about the pleasant meadows like young lambs. A trip to Arcadia will do us both good. We are sure to enjoy ourselves, especially in the long grass, and we may make a little money.” He rattled a few coppers in his pocket to show that he meant business.

“I have heard on good authority that Arcadians are broke,” I replied. “They lie about so much in the sylvan glades whistling to nymphs that they never have any cash. They have no time to get any, the nymphs being of a perfect loveliness.”

“We must visit them on Saturday night,” remarked Snooker, “before they have been to the estaminet nearest to their particular glade.”

“What’s the plot now?” I asked suspiciously, having little confidence in my friend’s moral principle. He always seems to mean well and to carry out his meaning differently.

He replied to my question. “Racing, my boy, that’s the plot, of course,” he said, with a wink of terrible import; and when he said “racing” I agreed at once to go with him. Some temptations are irresistible to a person of warm temperament. It may have been the wink that caused me to make this prompt decision, for, as a rule, i Snooker does not wink without scoring; or, again, the determining reason may have been the hope of pleasure combined with plun —that is, profit. Men will go anywhere if the reward be sufficiently pleasant and pecuniary; hence the success of Exploration in warm climates, particularly after gold.

That reminds me also that when, in the good old days, we used to travel about the country together, my friend and I, with a racing pony or two and a fighting man, working the rural meetings to the best of our poor ability, we had plenty of fun while we were getting what was necessary to maintain us in comfort; and startling incidents occurred almost daily to reconcile us to the simplicity of the life. It was a merry time while it lasted; no doubt the pace was too hot for it to continue with any degree of permanence.

At the sportive gatherings referred to one could do pretty much as one’s fancy dictated some years ago, so long as one was prepared to take the risks and fight one’s way out of a row to a place of safety. It was necessary to be careful how one lost a race with a hot favorite. The bucolic punters were apt to become unruly when they had been unfairly treated, and, knowing they could not get their money back, they generally made a noise. Alas, when our hot favorites were sometimes beaten (and how could we back them at the price?) the rural speculators—-some of whom laid as much as six shillings to four on in one bet —demonstrated by the violence of their procedure, that it was our own special brand of gore they desired to sample ; but, I am proud to say, they never drew it in appreciable quantities.

As is well known to sporting readers, the country “flapping” meetings have died out to a great extent during the last quarter of a century. Few are held now. high-class sportsmen do not lament their desuetude. Owners who ran horses at such meetings were almost invariably “on the make,” while the jockeys employed were of the sort who revel in shady actions for their own emolument. If they could not win fairly when “on the job” they often adopted foul tactics, and thought nothing of knocking another jockey over the rails, or, if there were no rails, into the nearest purling stream deep enough for their purpose. To see really keen sport, as Snooker remarked, one had to go to Arcadia.

Yet it was difficult to preserve one’s independence of character and love of high principle at such reunions. You had to go with the others unless you wish to be “cut up” for the delectation of men for whom hanging without complications was too bright an end. Of a somewhat nervous temperament myself —“artistic ” it is termed in the higher circles —and averse to strong measures which may become prejudicial to my own well-being, I never considered it prudent to go “flapping” without a fighting man as a member of the troupe. I like to do my punching vicariously.

At the inception of our Arcadian trip Snooker objected to the presence of a subsidized puncher on the ground of expense. What would keep two, he said, might not please three, especially in the matter of refreshment. He declared that he hated to put bis fighting out, like his family washing, and stand idly by while others were administering punishment.

After, however, he had only just escaped on one occasion from the fury of the mob—they thought his favorite was not “spinning,” and he wasn’t— Snooker became less penurious in his views concerning the protection afforded by pugilism, and withdrew his objection to professional attendance. We felt easisr in our mind when our “minder” was with us. Money may be earned too dearly, even in Arcadia.

In pursuit of wealth, then, Snooker and I visited the races at Slocum on the-Sludge. In order to be in time we arrived there the night – before the festivities began; for want of something better to do we discussed in the hotel smoking-room the details of our programme for the morrow. We had t wo horses with us ready for the fray. One was to be run in the chief steeplechase (worth £20); the other — only a little ’un, but a rare good sort —was to compete for a £10 stake restricted to ponies and galloways. Our prognostications of success were tinged with melancholy. Our finances could not stand a heavy strain.

“The little mare may win all right,” said Snooker, in a voice intended to be cheerful, but which broke down soon after the start. “She’s very well just now, and wont have much to beat.

But I’m doubtful about old Blowhard in the steeplechase. He has become slow with age, and chances his jumps when he has crawled over a few of them. The Lizard is sure to win that race if his party back him.”

“He’s sure not to win it if they don’t,” I responded, with alacrity. “You know what ‘all-hot’ gentlemen they are. Theirs is a simple motto in regard to money. If you’ve got it they must have it, or they’ll wring your neck. Why, they’d skin a bookmaker for one-and-sixpence ‘ready,” and slaughter his clerk to make up the half-dollar.”

“They have plenty of nerve,” said Snooker, pacing the room, and blowing a heavy cloud, but I don’t see how they can expect —”

“Expect, my dear fellow,” I interrupted; “they don’t expect—they help themselves.”

“Quite right, and we must be in at the death with them; Still, as I was about to say when you chipped in so gracefully,” added Snooker, with an ease of manner acquired in courts, “ they know that they won’t be able to get any sort of price about The Lizard to-morrow. He won a good race last week in a canter, beating fair class horses, and on form it is odds on him for this steeplechase. They don’t like laying odds on unless they have had a quiet talk with the opposition.”

“Well, we may be sure of one thing: If they don’t back their champion they’ll stop him, and back something else. Champions can’t run for nothing nowadays.”

That statement, made by me with perfect confidence, ought to have closed the argument, but Snooker was of a different opinion. He gives nobody a walk-over, even if he has only an outside chance and cannot really stay the course.

“Oh! You are referring to the old game,” he said. “Give the bookies the office to lay yours and take half the volume. I can see our opponents of to-morrow doing that. They are not satisfied with backing the winner of every race and one for a situation; they want to lay many of the losers, and return home full of gold and guzzle. It is surprising they are not taken out in open boats at night with a brick tied to their neck and——–”

“Quite so, pour encourager les autres,” I remarked, briskly, because I never feel happy until I have used that phrase at least once during the evening. Then, conscious of something attempted, something done, I added: “Well, we must do the best we can to-morrow, old chap. There’s nothing like honest striving to keep weight off and to place us on a level footing with our playmates. We’ve come a long way, and must not go back to our happy homes red-han —I mean empty-handed.”

“The inhabitants of Arcadia might be more Arcadian than they are found to be when you get to know them,” remarked Snooker, as he took his candlestick and went to bed.

Chapter II

When we reached the racecourse next day we saw that The Lizard, a good horse in his class, had arrived and was walking round the paddock. His appearance indicated to the least expert judge that he was trained to the hour. Was his hour come? His “party” were present in strong force. They pervaded the place, and would no doubt have removed such portions of it as were worth anything if they had brought with them the necessary apparatus.

What we had to discover before the race was the policy of the opposition. Would The Lizard gang run their horse out on his merits, or check him en route with a view to future contingencies? With him out of the way—that is, with him not frying to distinguish himself —we were confident that he could win ; hence the importance of our learning what they intended to do, so that we might know what to do, and back our crack to win a sum of money that would facilitate our return passage.

How Snooker flitted about the paddock, to be sure, in search of the information necessary for our happiness! He was like an uneasy ghost on piece-work putting in some overtime. As it was my task to ride Blowhard, I was obliged to change my clothes and weigh out, leaving my associate to gather inspiration before the horses went to the post. Seeing nothing of him for some time, and knowing that we should soon have to commence hostilities, I was becoming anxious, when he appeared with a smiling visage and his usual debonair manner. The brave Snooker was himself again. He “knew something” at last. He had discovered that there was a chance of winning something, which is what we all wish to know, however largely our income may exceed our expenditure before the collapse occurs.

Taking me to a corner of the paddock where we might converse without an audience, Snooker said: “It’s all right, my lad; they are getting it up for us. But we must get there first. Their horse is a stiff ’un, and they will—after the pub ic have backed him—back ours. That I don’t mind, but I must have the first run of the market.”

“Slip into the ring at once before the betting opens,” I said, “and get all the best prices about Blowhard. We can’t lose it with The Lizard stiffened for us. Don’t let his precious owners forestall you.”

True to the sweet impulses of his nature, Snooker said that he would act as I advised, and expressed a regret that he had not an extensive “nodding” arrangement with the leading members of the ring. “Gracious!” he ejaculated, mopping his brow, “if they’d only stand me ‘on the curtsey,’ I’d make ’em wish they’d never opened their jaws or seen a greasy satchel!”

Then, saddling operations having been completed, he gave me a leg-up on to the back of Blowhard, and I felt like a winner before the fighting began. There were five runners; two could not have jumped the country if it had been partially burnt down for them; another was lame and could barely raise a crawl before he was warmed up; the only dangerous candidate was “looking on.”

Our horse was a fine jumper, but was troubled with the slows. If he could have got up a little more speed, even for a short time, he would have been useful, as he could stay for ever at a tedious amble, and when he did not jump a fence he destroyed it. Those who followed him had an easy time if he were in one of his destructive moods. He was a pleasant horse to ride, also to ride after. One might depend upon him to sweep away obstructions that, in his judgment, were deleterious.

Before putting me up, Snooker had told me to make running if I found it possible to do so; and, disregarding Blowhard’s natural want of velocity, I tried to do so. But they were all at the first fence long before me, despite the fact that I raced for it at top speed; the old horse was truly aa slow as an omnibus full of obese female. Between the second and third fences the favorite (The Lizard) was pulled back to me, and his jockey said —

“Well, and why don’t you steam ahead a little faster than a hearse? You’ll never get round at this rate until all the people have gone and the drinking booths have closed. Don’t mind me— l ain’t a-buzzin’.” He took a steady pull at the reins. “But this ’oss I’m on is a tremendous puller; if you can’t move along with more freedom I sha’n’t be able to keep behind you. For Heaven’s sake shove yours on; hit him again; at present you couldn’t beat a mill-cart.”

“Wait till he gets warmer,” I replied, winding, the old horse up to the best of my ability and his. “He goes much faster when he begins to perspire. Wait for the steam.”

The jockey grinned at me, as I thought, in a derisive manner. So we raced round the course without any startling adventures until about a mile from home, when an accident occurred which threatened to alter our plans. I must have been riding Blowhard too severely in my frantic efforts to keep near the favorite; at any rate he attempted to destroy one fence in his usual methodical manner, and —he must have been weakened by the terrible pace—it was stronger than he was; it threw him violently on his nose, with which feature he ploughed up the ground for many yards. The shock knocked him out for a time, thus giving the favorite a long lead; but the clever jockey on that animal was equal to the occasion. Instead of making the next turn he went straight over the hedge into the adjacent field, which he galloped round for several minutes, so as to give me time to get my breath again.

That I did as soon as possible, Blowhard having recovered consciousness almost simultaneously; then the rider of the favorite jumped back into the course, still letting me have a commanding lead. In fact he never made an attempt to come near me again until we were about a couple of hundred yards from home; whereupon 1 sat down to ride a tremendous finish up the straight, wondering if Archer could have done it better in his prime, and my struggles were no doubt calculated to stike awe into the minds of the simple Arcadians who had backed the favorite. My expression, too, when “finishing,” was subsequently described to me by a dear friend as “horrific.” Happily I won, but I could not have done so if the opposing jockey had been a man of unblemished character.

After the race, I regret to state, there was a disturbance on the course. The Arcadian punters had lost their money, and, having noted how the favorite had been ridden, they came to the conclusion that the jockey had not done his best. When that eminent horseman was returning to the paddock they surged round him with cries of vengeance and big sticks. An infuriated butcher, who had lost three-and-sixpence and his reason on the race, struck at him with a bludgeon heavy enough to slay an ox. The jockey did not wait to be torn into pieces. Seeing the hopelessness of contending against so large and furious a crowd, he touched his horse with the spur and galloped away across country. He never returned to weigh in. We saw nothing more of him, and the mob yelled for hours. It was rather an exciting adventure.

But the trip to Arcadia was profitable to Snooker and me. We went there because we desired to modify a feeling of temporary embarrassment, and we did not come empty away. A sense of unaccustomed wealth was our dominant emotion as we made the return journey in a first-class smoking carriage, both with long cigars, and Snooker talked of turning over a new leaf. He only talks like that when the old one has served his purpose.

G.G.

New Zealand Illustrated Sporting & Dramatic Review, 22 June 1899