More chronicles of a minor sportsman.

Otago Witness, 4 November 1908

By F. D’A. C. De L‘Isle

Author of “Tales of Sahib Land,” “The Chronicles of a Turf Detective,” “Anthony Augustus Joskins, Sportsman,” etc.

WE MAKE GOOD THE DEFICIT.

Affairs were anything but cheerful at the. Folly after our shocking reverse last chronicled. Every available property that Alec could find to mortgage he hypothecated, and it was only by the most strenuous exertions that we saved the Folly and. the stables from going to the hammer. But that banal truism about perseverance was never better exemplified than in our case, and the dogged pluck of the gamest sportsman that I ever met was shortly to be well rewarded. After the weeding-out sale of stock we still had half-a-dozen really useful horses in work, and two or three coming along on grass, soon to be ready for the exercise track. Then there were the maidens. Alec had nine thoroughbred matrons at the Folly, and we had exactly that number of three-year-olds to test. We spent half a day in christening them, and this is the result: Colt by Iroquois—Miss Pocahontas, Uncas; colt by Iroquois—Frailty, Laughing Water; colt by Iroquois—Beeswing, Flying Scud; filly by Fisherman—Sea­weed, Sold Again; colt by Fisherman— Pot-8-os, Snooker; filly by Fisherman— Sound, Fisherman; filly by Iroquois— Crossfire, Mohican Maid; colt by Fisherman—Blink Bonny, Mermaid; colt by Iroquois—Grace Darling, Lifeboat; colt by Fisherman—Cobweb, The Seine; filly by Fisherman—Oceana, Anadoymene. Of this batch the best-looking were Flying Scud, Unkas, Lifeboat, and Anadoymene. They looked quality all over. But there was one long, slab-sided, fiddle-headed beggar that I took an immense liking to, and that was Snooker. He was as ugly as a Malay pirate’s knife, but there was a wear-and-tear look about him that meant much hard galloping and no end of stamina. And, goodness knows, that was what was required out in me back-blocks in those days.

We had the usual hard time breaking them in and teaching them how to hit out, and Mr Snooker gave me the time of my life. He bucked like a demon, and even after I had got him quiet I could never tell when he might wish to have a go to unseat me. He was chock full of ginger, and as lively as an electric spark, and the more I rode him the better I liked him. Therefore, it goes without saying that I devoted a great deal of time and patience to his schooling. From the beginning he developed a tremendous stride, and the ground he covered was quite astonishing. He came along twice as quickly as any of our other maidens, and in six weeks’ time we were galloping him with our horses in training. I soon got his strength, and this was my opinion, as well as Alec’s: Being a big, awkward colt, he was a slow beginner, and not handy in a crowd, but once he firmly settled down into that great leathering stride of his he would move along like a steam engine, and make up any ground he might lose at the start in no time. As he got spread he went faster and faster, with an even, machine-like stride that never seemed to tire. Truly, he was developing into a smasher. We tried him with Carbineer and Blue Flyer, at weight for age, over a mile after he had been three weeks in training, and he dead-seated with the old veteran, a good enough guide to load us into entering him in every maiden race within reach.

One morning we had what’ was called at the Folly a “trial morning”—we tried out all our stud in training. Old Carbineer, Arrah-Go-On, Blue Flyer, and Coalheaver proved to be in the best condition of the seasoned horses, and Snooker easily stood head and shoulders over Flying Scud, Uncas, Anadoymene, and the others.

“Hales!” said jovial old Alec, patting me on the back after the trials were over, “this rejuvenates me. Like Icarus, if I bad wings, I would soar into the empyrean. I feel really well. This morning’s work is good enough for a clean plate at Bourke. We’ve got six readies just about cherry ripe, and there are seven events on the Bourke programme. Old Carbineer or Coal-heaver ought to do us a double! Hales, we will spoil the Egyptians!” and Alec strutted up and down with the sublime grandeur of the peacock.

“One moment, most potent factor in my dream of life! Caution, in moderation, is the curb that controls the excess of sanguine insanity. If you attempt any Dædalian exploit, would it not be better to invent a submarine first? Doubtless you know that Icarus was a flyer, but did you ever grasp the fact that soaring ambition in his case overleapt itself, and Mr Icarus, in getting too close to the sun, forgot that he was not a salamander, got his propellers burnt, and, falling into the sea, was ignominiously drowned. When his sculptor father, Dædalus, escaped from Crete he was anticipating Zeppelin, Dumont, and the Wright Brothers by thousands of years, but his experiment ended disastrously for the most ambitious one of his party. Therefore, pause, and consider the question of expense in conveying $ix thoroughbreds to Bourke, 80 miles away. We must get back, O King, as well as get there!”

Alec paused in his walk and surveyed me with obnoxious scorn.

“You University fellows are always trying to air your learning—that long jaw about his nibs and flying was quite unnecessary. Hales, I always thought you were game! If I can raise the where­withal to get there, isn’t that good enough? Do you want to sling my poverty in my face, eh?”

“I did not, my dear friend, believe me! I was thinking of someone else!’’

“Oh! Hanged if I know what’s come over you since you got spooney on Polly Cartwright. Before you met her you would fake any risk with an empty pocket—now you funk a simple hurdle.” Alec emphasised his remark with a sweeping movement of his arm, and continued, his walk, which was more of the quarter-deck now than of the peacock.

I felt embarrassed, for I knew that Alec was right. Love was making a coward of me. “Do as you please, Alec, and I’ll stick to you in everything. If you wish to take the six to Bourke, take them; and although the expense will be awful, I think we have good enough material to score with.” It was a lame reply to Alec’s denunciation, but it sobered him nevertheless.

“I’m afraid you’re right though, Hales! It will cost the best part of a century for entries, acceptances, and travelling expenses, and I couldn’t raise more unless I sold the Folly!” He sighed, and his broad shoulders drooped significantly. For a true sportsman to be hard hit is a cruel blow. I was cautious for but a moment, then I thrust my hand into my breast pocket, withdrew a letter I had got from Home the day before, and put a draft for a hundred pounds into Alec’s hand. My dear old dad had remembered my birthday, and the remittance was the result.

Alec scanned the draft curiously. “What’s this?”

“Only business, my dear fellow,” I stammered jocularly. “Give me a quarter share in your Bourke venture, and I will put that in for my whack!”

“Wager!” said Alec eagerly. “I’ll make this a thousand for you. Give us your hand!” He squeezed my hand in eloquent silence, and we adjourned to the verandah.

“Now then, Hales,” said Alec, after emptying his glass, “let us plan the campaign!” He spread out the programme of the Bourke meeting on the table before him. “We have a fortnight before us; the entries will have to be posted to-night. Now, then, the first race is a Maiden Handicap of six furlongs, for horses that have never won a prize. We have only one we can enter in that event, and that is Blue Flyer, and if he doesn’t break his duck this time I’ll eat my pantaloons!”

Dear old Alec, he was getting as excited over the business as a recruit over the news of a war.

“Yes, I think Blue Flyer should score easily this time,” I observed. “He has quite recovered from his hurt, and is ever so much better now than he was before. It will take something out of the ordinary to down him.”

“Me too! I agree. Now then, sahib, for race number two—Five furlongs, for two and three-year-olds that have never raced before. How about this being a gift for Snooker?”

“I feel inclined to ‘tu quoque’ your remark re Blue Flyer. Snooker will come in alone!”

“Good! The Bourke Handicap, one mile, open. We’ll give Coalheaver a chance in that, as well as in the November Handicap, also one mile. He’s strong and healthy, and good enough for two races in one day—what d’you say, Hales?”

“Quite right. It might be better to put old Jim into the second event to give our champion a clear run. We need not hustle him along too much if he’s wanted again. Just a pipe-opener, eh?”

“Not a bad idea; we’ll enter Carbineer for the November Handicap. For the six furlongs Western Districts Handicap I think Arrah-Go-On has a fair chance; and either Pain Killer or New Heaven for the seven furlongs. Shall we give Jellybags a flutter in the Squatters’ Handicap? You ought to be able to handle him well enough to get thereabouts at the finish!”

“Right O!” I replied. “I may as well have a ride there; and the stake is worth fifty pounds to the winner. We’ve got a really strong string to invade Bourke with, and it will be worse than Nymagee luck if we don’t score well. How about getting a boy up from Sydney to ride for us in the open events?”

“A good idea. I’ll wire to Sydney to­night!” And Alec went away to his office to fix up the business.

For the next fortnight we were pretty busy, and everything went on swimmingly with us. The houses could not have come along better, and when we started for Bourke we were very sanguine.

To my great delight Polly Cartwright also arrived at Bourke with her father and Artie Cartwright, her brother, who had a maiden competitor for the juvenile race. But my delight was to be of short duration. Polly Cartwright was a typical Australian girl, and she was very beautiful in a subdued way. She was a brunette, with a delicious. creamy complexion that looked like claret and cream mixed. She was tall and beautifully moulded, and in her carriage was that unconscious grace that seems to be born in the bush maiden. Indeed, I thought so much of her that I can justly quote her as being “A maid that paragoned description and wild fame; one that ex­ celled the quirks of blazoning pens, and in the essential vesture of creation did bear all excellency!” At Bourke she attracted much attention, and rapidly be­ came the “belle of the meeting.” To my disgust a squatter named Halley made the most open and desperate love to her. He was an influential man evidently, and one of the swells of that district. He had one or two horses in every race, and his tandem, his attendants, and his get­ up all blared out “Money” most unmistakably. My bush love-bird seemed to be flattered by his attentions, and certainly did not discourage his open advances. Ah! me; how little we men, in our superior folly, know the inmost depths of a woman’s soul.

To me it appeared as if Byron was right when he wrote that “Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare; and Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair!” From disgust I resorted to sulkiness, and as the first race came on I left her altogether, and busied my­ self with the preparation of Blue Flyer. There were seven horses in the race, including two of Halley’s. Our horse was leniently treated, and Alec took 8 to 1 to twenty pounds about him from the book­makers.

As the field galloped past, doing the preliminary, Halley sneeringly invited me to have an even pony on with him, backing Blue Flyer against either of his. My mortification was absolute. I did not dare to bet, since all my available capital was invested with Alec. I think Polly saw my chagrin, for a queer look came into her eyes, and she became strangely silent. We had a really clever little Sydney lad riding for us, and he won from end to end, never giving anything else a chance. Halley’s best was five lengths away second, and the rest of the field down the straight.

The squatter merely muttered a ‘‘Very merry!” to Polly, and turned away smothering something very like a curse. I just glanced at her, and then rushed away to help Alec with Blue Flyer. Just before the second race I asked Alec for £50, and explained why I wanted it.

“If Halley’s got a maiden that can beat Snooker, I shall be very surprised,” I said. “Give me fifty to hold in case he challenges me again.”

“Hullo!” whistled Alec, with a broad grin spreading over his perspiring face. “Green light, eh? Ah! Hales, don’t doubt the [girl. I’ve seen something in her eyes when she looks at you that reminds me of the glance in the eyes of the staunchest little woman in the world. But here’s the fifty. It’ll be a hundred soon, I hope.”

There were 14 juveniles in the five fur­ tong race, and some of them were really equal in looks to the best seen at Rand wick. Halley’s filly, Lady Go-Bang, by Golds-brough, was quickly made first favourite, and mindful of the smashing form displayed by Blue Flyer, the bookmakers resolutely refused to lay more than threes about Snooker. That gentleman behaved more than badly. Whether the crowd excited him or the colours I can’t say, but ag soon as he was mounted he unshipped his rider with one tremendous buck. Twice more he repeated the performance, and yet once again his tiny jockey got up, shook himself, and was flung into his pad of a saddle with the remark, “My word! He is a snorter!”

I patted the little chap on the back, and said, in a whisper, “If you can only sit him you’ll have an easier win than you had on Blue Flyer. Coax him, and pet him; he’s very excitable, but he’s a real good ’un at heart.”

But Snooker would not behave like a gentleman, and he pranced about in his preliminary in a way that nearly unshipped his jockey half-a-dozen times.

I returned to Polly’s side hot and angry. Halley was almost hugging her in his hot-headed wooing.

“Nice flash lot, that colt of Fullalove’s!” exclaimed the squatter. “Is he as good as your other three-year-old?”

“Pretty well,” I replied, containing myself with impatience. “He’s a thorough­bred, and I suppose he is excited over his surroundings.”

“Well, if he can beat mv Goldsbrough filly he’ll be a marvel. I ’ll bet you an even pony he’s not within five lengths of her!” he sneered.

Then I jarred him. “Which way?” I asked.

“What d’you mean?” he queried in surprise.

“Do you mean in front of or behind her?”

He roared with laughter.

“Why, behind her, of course. D’you bet?”

“Make it two ponies, and it’s a wager,” I replied.

“All right, it’s a bet,” he said nonchalantly. “Had a good win on the last race, eh?”

I saw Polly flush at the sneer, and I lost my head. “Good win OT not, I’ll make it a hundred this time if you’re agreeable,” I replied.

“Done!” said he but I noticed that he was much less boastful as we turned to watch the race. To my horror, Snooker jumped away from the flag and lost nearly ten lengths at the start. Luckily they all got off badly, and that gave the boy on our horse a chance to start in pursuit.

“Don’t like your chance,” said Halley coolly; “my mare is leading, and nothing in that field will head her again!”

And it looked like it. For the first two furlongs Snooker didn’t gain a yard; then he got ‘into that enormous stride of his, and be bore down on his opponents like a motor express car. Halley shut up like a telescope, and savagely watched our horse cut down his field. I never saw anything more magnificent in sprinting. At four furlongs he had caught his field, and was running along smoothly in third place. His jockey, following instructions, sat still as a mouse, nursing the colt for the finish. And it came like a thunderbolt in the straight. The instant the lad shook him up Snooker raced up to the leader, and in two strides was a clear length in front. He increased this to two lengths in the short distance to the winning post, and won without having the whip drawn on him. For one moment the spectators were paralysed; then such a shout went up as has seldom been heard on a country course.

Polly had gone white at the start of the race, as I had been particular to notice; but when it was all over her eyes were shining and her cheeks were like blush roses.

“You can’t beat the Folly, Mr Halley!” she exclaimed with a lovely moue. “Mr Fullalove will sweep the board to-day, I think.”

“They’ve beaten me as completely as you have beaten me!” replied the squatter gallantly; and she actually smiled coquettishly at him.

I cleared off as savage as a bear with a sore ear, and I did not approach Polly again until after Coalheaver had won the big money and Arrah-Go-On the fix-fur­long race. The Folly stable was having a day out and no mistake. Alec had increased his bets with each win, and after the fourth race he was six hundred ahead of it in wagers alone. I cought out Polly just before the Squatter Cup, a welter race for amateur riders, in which I was to pilot Jellybags. To my surprise I found her alone. Her cavalier was riding in the same race, and he had gone» to array himself in his war-paint.

“Oh! Otho, I am so glad you are winning!” she gushed as I joined her. “For goodness sake don’t leave me alone with that odious Mr Halley again. I hate the man! And if you don’t beat him in this race I will never forgive you—never!”

It was my turn to be surprised.

“Well, of all the coolest things I ever heard, this beats all. Here have you been shamelessly flirting with this man all the morning, and now you turn and tell me that you hate him. You women are strange creatures!”

A sob—a real, heartful sob—checked me. “I—I—only did it to—to—tease you! D—d—don’t be cruel to me, dear. I feel quite wretched about it! I’ll n—n—never do it again!” she cried.

She was on the verge of tears, and I soothed her to the best of my ability. A more contrite maiden never walked that course. After some very sober remarks on the heinous crime of flirting I left her in her father’s care, and adjourned to dress down Mr Halley in the Cup, which I just managed to do by winning a close race, after a desperate finish, in the last stride. Had Halley known even the primary ethics of race riding he could have beaten me easily, as Jellybags was giving away over a stone in weight to a really good horse.

We went down in the Final Flutter when our horse Pain Killer was beaten by a really smashing colt from Wilcannia, but Coalheaver was in one of his invincible humours, and he got up and won by a head in the November Handicap.

“My oath!” exclaimed our Sydney jockey, when he dismounted from’ our champion; “this cove’s a snorter, too! You’ve got some great prads up this way!”

And how glad we all were? And how glad I was, both for Alec and myself. We had cleared about, fourteen hundred pounds, and Alec’s vaticination concerning the clean plate at Bourke bad all but come true. Alec was as jubilant as any of us, for it meant the removal of all the plasters from The Folly, and a clean slate to start with.

As I swung my sweetheart’s supple figure through the race ball room that evening I proudly whispered in her ear that the apogee of our happiness was fast approaching, thanks to our having.

MADE GOOD THE DEFICIT.