Little Whitewings

“YES, yes,” said Snooker, philosophically, as we were going home from the races in a first class carriage with third class tickets (the crowd was so great), “oh, yes, it is easy to be wise after the event—that is, after your money is gone. Yet empty pockets surely proclaim an empty mind.”

Here he shook up a few small coins in his own pockets to prove that he, at least, was able to raise a satisfactory jingle, and added: ‘‘The wisest man I have ever known cherished a passion for sausages, and—the pity of it—he could never afford to buy enough of them to make himself ill.” The speaker sighed and mopped his brow.

We sat close together in the carriage and wondered what was coming next. Why sausages? They seemed to convey a weird suggestion.

It was Bertie Wraggles who had pluck enough to speak first having the advantage of youth on his side.

“Your friend with the passion had perhaps become inured,” he said, “to the—er—delicacies internally, and was not afraid that they would round upon him. He doubtless required impossible quantities to produce disorder within. It may have been that his stomach was strong, not that his purse was weak. But, talking of wisdom, old chap, why— sausages?”

 “I was only thinking; it was a curious train of thought, inspired perhaps by backing losers,” replied Snooker, with a ruminative aspect. “Men are apt to reflect on their wasted past when returning from the races with assets practically nil. If they think of food with a lingering hope, who can blame them? And I had a race-horse once that was made into sausages.”

We looked at each other while Snooker looked at us with obvious amusement. The professional backer, who sat in a corner of the carriage, began to mew in a life-like manner. Having too a recollection of visiting Snooker frequently when he was an owner of racehorses, and partaking of the comestible which had been mentioned under his hospitable roof, the last statement put forward as to the source of his supplies did not leave an agreeable impression on my mind. One does not care to dwell upon the chance of eating racehorses in any form, however much money one may have lost by backing them.

So I tried to compare names of quadrupeds and dates of my visits, so as to crush the rising doubt. This effort on my part was not successful. “What horse was it,” I asked at length, “that was converted into food for man?”

“It was not a horse,” replied our friend calmly, “it was a mare. But steady yourself, dear boy; there is no need for palpitation. The incident was before your time. There were lots of men feeding before you began—better men than you, if not hungrier—and the sausages were not intended for home consumption. People do not eat, as a rule, what they consider most suitable for the foreign market. You cannot have your cake,” he added, with a burst of confidence, “and export it as well because you make a richer one for yourself.”

“What was the unfortunate mare’s name?” asked Wraggles, who loved to start the old man talking; “we may remember something about her if you tell us her name. She was no doubt useful before being chopped up.”

“Her name was Whitewings. You recollect the little mare, of course; she was only a pony, not much more than fifteen hands, and weedy at that, with little substance, but game as a bulldog and a champion ‘sticker.’ She used to carry 12st 71b in steeplechases and hurdle races; it took a pretty smart one to beat her when her head was not—ah— lettered. But there was this peculiarity: she could never win when the going was at all heavy. She was no good in the mud.”

Snooker sighed again, a prolonged suspiration, as he reflected how much mud there generally is in England during the winter months when chasers arc flying in the air. As to that he remarked pensively: “and to think that all which may lie between a deserving man and prosperity is a great deal of useless ooze.”

Assuming a brisker air, however, to keep the story from languishing, Wraggles went on: “Oh, yes, I remember the mare quite well. Little Whitewings we used to call her on the course, and what a game bit of stuff she was! Always wanting to do a little more just to please herself. It was whispered in racing circles at the time that she could invariably win when her popular owner had an idea that it was good enough for him to back her.”

Here Wraggles laughed. His is often the only laugh, even amongst convives, that results from his efforts to be funny; and perhaps self-applause is better than none at all. But the best plan is to try to live without it.

“That’s just what our kind-hearted friends would whisper, or rather yell out,” retorted Snooker indignantly; “if they see us doing tolerably well they are disgusted, and assert without fear of contradiction that we are thieving as usual. There are some people”—he raised his voice as though bidding the ruffians to come forward and meet their doom— “who, if a man has made money and they can’t take it from him, accuse him of acquiring it by stealth. I never won a race without being told by somebody who had lost on it that I had been ‘readying’ the horse for months, and that, unless I died soon, I should be warned off for the remainder of my life.”

“That’s the best of having a good character,” remarked Wraggles in his genial way: “many sportsmen are not suspected because they have not been discovered at the psychological moment. You were never really trusted by the authorities, if I remember rightly, as far as round the corner. We are all liable to have our motives misinterpreted when we dabble in the money market for ourselves. But what were you going to tell us about little Whitewings?”

Thus questioned, Snooker looked at the speaker earnestly, then at the others present, with a less intent gaze, as if to see whether the audience was likely to be sympathetic or ironical. He did not seem to mind which it was so long as ho knew what to expect. The professional backer shifted uneasily on his seat, being “broke” again; he was understood to mutter that “it would be a good thing for the favourite if he were really trying,” or words to that effect. Wraggles said: “fire away, old man, it’s a walk-over for you”; and I promised that if no one else listened faithfully to him and believed all he said I would strive to do so. This left Snooker no loophole for escape; so he told us the story of little Whitewings, of her want of action through the mud, of how it tired her, of his own chastening experiences in connexion therewith, and of her ultimate fate as a food product for the teeming millions.

Before beginning his recital, however, he appeared to be rather sad (we don’t canter to the post gaily at a certain age), but he warmed to his work as he galloped into his stride ; he was reaching out nobly at the half distance, and was never going better than at the finish. How he took hold of the bit, to be sure, when the decanters appeared! Thoroughly game even though his wind is gone, our valued friend still takes some catching if he means business on the eventful day and thinks he has about an even money chance. He does not care to gamble on the off-colour contingencies.

“When I first owned Whitewings (Snooker went on) she was useful in her class. She could win when the company was not too select, and fond as I have always been of bad company, I placed her to advantage. She won several selling races for me, being well backed each time by myself rather than by the public. Of course, after each triumph she realized more money at the subsequent auction. Thus it became more difficult to buy her back, and some of the profit went in that way. Those were anguishing moments, but what would you? It is not an easy game to play when you wish to make a great deal of money and do not possess much to begin with as a fructifying agency.

“After a series of successes and failures in various parts of the country, I took Whitewings to an unimportant meeting in the west of England. She was entered in a selling hurdle race worth £40, winner to be sold for £50, if the necessary capital were forthcoming at the time. I intended to have a dash on my own account, as the race seemed a good thing for h er; and several large firms who supplied me with goods were pressing me unduly just then to pay them something, even if it were only a small sum on account. You will perceive that success was to me somewhat important as also to the other fellows. I told my jockey the night before the races that the little mare was sure to win, being very fit and well, but he was not equally confident. He pointed out that the course was knee-deep in mud; that, having ridden over it before, he thought it was a very long two miles, and that Whitewings did not stay that distance except on the top of the ground in a slow-run race. As you all know, I am a sanguine man when the worst comes to the worst, believing then not unreasonably that it will change for the better, and I rallied my jockey on his want of faith in the future. He was the sort of person who dies a thousand deaths before ho is actually interred.

“What!” I exclaimed, prodding at his ribs with a genuine spirit of enthusiasm, “you don’t believe the little mare will win? Why, what are you made o f Y o u don’t know what you believe or why you think so. She’ll beat all these crocks in a canter, and you might ride her with your fingers in your mouth.”

My jockey smiled as though he had recently had his fingers in his mouth by mistake and was not pleased with the exquisite flavour. He preferred, however, not to argue with me, which showed his good judgment. When people argue with me they get nothing if they win.

We made a mental note of that: it was a useful fact to remember; and Snooker resumed, still full of running:—

“When I went to inspect the course next day and saw its condition, I began to realise that for ray jockey’s lugubrious sentiments there was some excuse. The going was fearfully holding; the mare was small to carry the big weight through the heavy ground; she did not really stay two miles in a fast-run race; and the course looked the longest two miles I had ever encountered. The prospect was not eminently pleasing.

“Yet, on form, the race seemed a good thing for her. So the public thought; for before the numbers were all put up, and before I had decided what to do for the best for myself, the punters backed her from evens to 2 to 1 on, at which gruesome spectacle I was obliged to gaze with feverish orbs, not having invested a penny of my own money. What position can be more unsatisfactory to a man of discernment? My state of mind was irritable. To make matters worse a rural magnate, who was also a steward of the meeting, came to me just before the horses went to the post and said, in a significant tone, looking at me as if I were a villain of the deepest dye ready trussed for execution: —

“‘This is a good, thing for your mare. We can’t get away from the form. I’ve laid thirty pounds to twenty on her: we shall watch how she runs very carefully—you understand. We should not like to see her beaten.’ And he looked at me again as though he were just going to put on the black cap in my interest, and would bo pleased to watch me led out for the last time. What a life! I t was truly terrible, and my own emotions led me round the paddock at a rapid rate.”

At this point Snooker paused for a while and rubbed u large handkerchief upon his eyes and nose indiscriminately, for ho seemed to bo agitated by the bitter reminiscences of the moment. He wanted a “blow” certainly. His aspect was that of a man preparing for the worst, or rather, prepared.

“What happened next?” asked Wraggles, almost breath­ less with excitement. “What did you do after the steward had read the riot act?”

“Thus environed by perils on every side,” continued Snooker, “I was obliged to lay £80 to £40 on Whitewings (fortunately I had a return ticket), and I gave my jockey his riding orders with great care. ‘Wait with the little mare,’ I tola him; ‘don’t attempt to come to the front until nearing the last hurdle, and pick your going as much as possible all the way so as to ease her. Don’t, oh, don’t go where the mud is thickest. If they fail to take her along very fast she’s sure to beat them for speed at the finish; so come with one run, only one, and do the trick. You can only win it once.’”

“My jockey replied that he would certainly arrange to come with the one desiderated run if the mare were able to come with him at the crisis named; whereupon I counselled him sternly not to come alone, adding that this was a partnership enterprise, not an individual speculation. He was impressed by the force of my reasoning. Ho rode to orders with commendable exactitude, waiting patiently up to the last hurdle us directed, over which the mare landed slightly in front. I was beginning to shout for joy and wave my hat. Then she stood still, absolutely stone-beat in the mud, and she could barely waddle up the straight, not being even placed. I could have run faster than she galloped the last hundred yards, and yet—and yet I ran in the opposite direction.”

“Why?” asked Wraggles courteously; “running has never been your strong suit, except perhaps running away from pressing ‘bogies.’ There was no fear, surely, of the punters endeavouring to assassinate you on the spot if you did not leave it. They are hasty, we know, but not murderous without cause.”

“Well, they began to hoot and hiss in on ominous manner,” said Snooker, “when Whitewings was beaten, thinking they had been ramped, und that I was the rampist so I left before they had the chance of making me the object of u demonstration. I had experienced that sort of thing before on other racecourses that need not be specified. Your hot favourite being beaten, you receive a brick on the back of your head; someone hits you with a stick across the bosom if you expose it in the slightest degree; your hat is bashed on to your nose ; your nose is punched, and you are taken half-dead before the stewards. ‘They can have it all to themselves,’ I remarked to myself, and so I left without delay. You must remember, gentlemen, that I was innocent and alone.”

We promised to remember. So innocent and lonely he was, so far from home! The professional backer cried from his corner that once when he was an owner he had to leave the course long before his horse because—–But Wraggles interrupted him here by saying to Snooker in a hushed voice: “The little mare was, of course—er—going out all right? Fit and spinning for her owner on the day?”

“Indubitably,” Snooker protested. “I backed her and lost ray money. That was what made the public scorn so hard for me to bear. If I had been ramping, I should have showed a front of brass, as would only have been natural and human. The mud beat her, and the course was too long. Afterwards they ran 2¼ mile races over the same distance. That was just my luck. They always stretched the course for me if I had a non-stayer. They would get me down somehow.” He paused for a few moments of self-commiseration.

“And, come now, as to the sausages,” I ventured at length anxious to clear up the initial mystery: “you must not forget the moral of the story. You have been over-running the lino. Try to pick up the scent again.”

“Ah yes, the sausages, why of course wo must not forget them,” replied the raconteur emphatically. “You see I sold little Whitewings to go abroad after she had broken down badly all round in this country, and they could not train her in foreign climes. I did not think they could, and was able, therefore, to suppress ray own sentiments of grief. So to avert expense, they fed her up for human food, passed her through the machine, and sent me a sample.”

“Was it good?” Wraggles inquired impulsively, having a weakness for anything reputed good to eat, especially when sent as a sample.

“I tried it on the dog first and then on the doctor; the latter was happily confined to his own premises for several days. He wished to know afterwards what it was —whether naturally putrescent or embalmed to preserve the noxious flavour. When I described it as ‘decayed racehorse’ he was taken ill again with violent spasms. And now”—Snooker smiled sweetly—“good night, dear boys, good night. She was a useful mare, but small, too small, and the mud always stopped her.”

G.G.

Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News, Saturday 11 November 1899