Our point-to-point
OUR hon. secretary—a good sportsman but a trifle gassy— proposed one evening (after dinner) that we should get up a point-to-point steeplechase in connection with the hunt; and old Captain Snooker, who never rode over a fence in his life, supported the idea cordially, and intimated his intention to ride amongst the welter division. He explained that his hunter, the noted Blowhard, did not possess any great turn of speed, but could jump a parish. Other members of the hunt, who had also done themselves well at the convivial board, and were, therefore, full of valour, expressed their emphatic conviction that a point to-point race ought to be arranged at once, that it would certainly become an annual and most popular affair, and that any hunting man who declined to take part in it was no sportsman—in fact, beneath contempt. The thing was settled on the spot. Of course the two most keen on the job were our worthy hon. secretary and the venerable Snooker, neither of whom could hang on over a steeplechase course to save their lives.
When, however, men mean business—and they generally do in matters of this kind after dinner—and when they are prepared to put their hands into their pockets (which is always easier when the inner man is comfortable), the rest is simple. So we found it. Subscriptions were promised there and then for a good cup for a farmers’ race, and also a cup for light and heavy weights— each race to be run separately over four miles and a half of fair hunting country—owners or subscribers up, or, failing them, local farmers. Before we parted we drank “Success to our Point-to- Point,” and that incorrigible veteran Snooker, whom nothing would induce when sober to jump a sheep-hurdle, offered to take 100 to 6 Blowhard twice.
The men who come out regularly with our hounds are not, taken all round, a particularly hard lot. Ours is not a swell country, and some days we don’t get much jumping; then, of course, we are all very valorous and tremendously disappointed. But, somehow or other, on the good days when the jumping does come, it seems to most of us a dreadful thing, and we do it (or more often shirk it) in fear and trembling. We don’t seem, to get enough of it ever to feel really comfortable. A noble sportsman who jumps one or two fences—and those small ones— in the course of the day is likely to acquire a habit of persistent funking which is incompatible with personal enjoyment, and causes him to regard the end of the day’s proceedings with relief. But on the journey home, when cigars are lighted and a modest refresher has been consumed, wo can talk as big as the members of any hunt in the swell shires; and with us certainly a little talking goes a long way.
The rules we formulated (or rather copied) for our races were marked by extreme simplicity, as was also the course (by desire). We had no wish to emulate Hie proceedings of the N.H.C., and unquestionably wo had no intention of trying rash experiments with the regulation ditch. The farmers were allowed to ride catch-weights over 12 st., ditto for the light-weight sub scribers’ race, and catch-weight over 14,7 st. for the leviathans. The distance, as stated, was to be 4½ miles; the fences were mostly natural and very easy; hunting costume was desired, but not insisted upon; and immense interest was taken in the prospects of the most likely competitors long before the event came off.
Our dandy—Chris. Courtney—was thought by some, himself included, to be dangerous in the heavy-weight class. What weight Chris, really rides is known only to himself; one may put it down as a liberal 16 st., but, despite this drawback, he deludes himself into the idea that he is quite a bruiser. He can’t ride for nuts. He is always mounted on very big horses, and what they don’t jump they destroy. Their weight carries them safely’ through or over. At timber Chris, thinks himself very good, yet lie was never known to jump a gate or a post and rails clean in his life. He does not fall, because he sweeps them away as though they were things of naught. He remarked as to the proposed point-to-point contest that he was sure to “get the country.” Give him time, and he would devastate the surrounding scenery for miles.
Thou there is our really hard young man—Percy Pecker—who occasionally gets a mount in a real steeplechase, and gives him self all sorts of airs in consequence. Who is guileless enough to put him up one cannot imagine, as ho never rides a winner, and apparently has no expectation of doing so. But, when hounds arc running, he cuts a big flourish as long as he lasts, and with Iris friend, young Rickets—who goes well until he falls off— often jumps quite formidable places, much to the disgust of old Snooker, who says that such lunatics are not fit to be at largo. Yet, after all, what does it matter? We all enjoy ourselves according to our tastes, and in the hunting-field as elsewhere tastes differ. Some men are happiest when the fences are large and frequent. Others prefer the convenient gap or eke the hard high road.
Our farmers are not a particularly’ sporting lot, but most of them promised to run a horse of some sort, mid, as one of the fraternity observed, “If we can’t ride wo can fall off,” the alternative being apparently accepted with cheerfulness. This is quite the right spirit in which to begin steeplechase riding, and we therefore hoped for the best. It was thought by those most competent to judge- commonly termed “the talent”—that the farmers’ race would be won either by George Stirt, who did a bit of dealing, and generally had a nag that could go, or by Dave Dagnall, who always sold a horse when he could. Both of these men were, in fact, dealers first and farmers afterwards, and the first-named occupation was probably the more lucrative. At any rate it engrossed nearly all their time and energy—to say nothing of a faculty of mendacity which long practice had perfected.
The farmers’ race was first on the card, and there were eight starters. Messrs. Stirt and Dagnall rode their own, and the race was voted a good thing for one of them. They were not too fond of each other, and were sure to ride “jealous.” They got off well together in front, and then waited on each other, the rest of the field following at irregular intervals. About a mile from homo the pace improved, and the two leaders raced together at the water-jump—a natural brook slightly enlarged, with a plain hedge on the take-off side. Here Stirt’s horse swerved on to the other—neither man was an accomplished jockey—and tried to jump the fence sideways, with the result that it fell into the ditch, bringing down Dagnall’s animal, and both were thus placed hors de combat. The other competitors were nearly a field behind, but gradually one appeared on the distant horizon—no other than old Drake, riding his general utility farm tit, and coming along at his leisure. He negotiated the water jump successfully, with one hand firmly clutching the back of the saddle for protection, and won easily at the finish amidst the enthusiastic applause of his friends, who declared that they knew he couldn’t lose it I Truth also compels one to state that old Drake was so elated by his victory—to him at all events quite unexpected—that before the revels were over he got very dr—–, that is to say merry, and was conveyed home at the bottom of his trap in a speechless condition, trying to sing.
The subscribers’ race for light-weights was next on the card, and there were nearly a dozen starters, amongst whom our young friends Messrs. Pecker and Rickets were prominent by reason of their very swagger get-up and Archer-like poses. They had a large number of female admirers, and they put on much side. One of them, judging from their confidential communications with their sweet lady friends, was sure to win, but they had not quite arranged which it should be, and as for the other runners, well, they might just as well be at home. But the knowing division fancied young Dixon’s blood hunter, The Swell, and if appearances went for anything he looked like giving any of the others a few fields start and an easy beating.
At last the welcome cry, “They’re off!” Of course Messrs. Pecker and Rickets made furious running, as though they were going half a mile instead of four miles and a half; but The Swell was judiciously steadied, being allowed to stride along easily and comfortably with his head in his chest. The two leaders pursued their wild career for about Iwo miles, when Mr. Ricket’s horse fell at an easy place, stone-beat. Mr. Pecker, however, was still going, and about a mile from home the rider of The Swell let his horse out a little, and soon went up to the leader’s girths. Then did Mr. Pecker—albeit yet some considerable distance from the winning-post—get his whip up and begin one of the most determined finishes ever seen. He seemed to be beating the atmosphere more than the horse, and a connoisseur remarked of him that he would ride best in a balloon. The end, needless to say, soon came. At a small rail fence Mr. Pecker’s poor animal tried to roll over instead of jump, and succeeded. He took the precaution of rolling on to his jockey, and stopped there for some time, it being difficult to say, when both were put on their legs, which was worst beat, man or geegee. The Swell won at his leisure, nothing having pace enough to make him gallop.
The greatest amount of general interest was centred in the last event on the programme—the race for the welter weights. Snooker’s heart failed him, of course, at the last moment, and he declined to go to the post. The old humbug said he had a severe attack of lumbago, but was prepared to take on the winner for any amount—when he got better. The hon. secretary— full of pluck, but no jockey—was one of the starters, riding his big hollow-backed chestnut which he had hunted for about sixteen consecutive seasons, and which, with time, could jump or climb any fence in the neighbourhood. The chance of the hon. secretary was popularly supposed to be represented by 1,000 to 3, no taker’s, and Snooker was very anxious to bet him a level pony he did not finish.
Then there was our dandy, Chris. Courtney, riding one of his elephants, who was expected to play havoc with the general appearance of the country’. Also old Colonel Slipton on his Irish hunter, Norah, a fine jumper—so fine, indeed, that she constantly jumped the Colonel off—but this did not much matter, as she always waited patiently for him to get on again. Still, in a steeplechase, performances of this kind lose time, and the Colonel’s chance was not fancied.
A good start was effected, and, determined to cut his field down in an effectual manner, Mr. Courtney went away with a strong lead. Our hon. secretary, however, followed him with a dogged air of determination which inspired his backers with hope. The Colonel, alas! three fences after the start, lost his balance in consequence of his mare jumping big, but he was helped up by the bystanders and cheerfully continued his journey. Thus the procession went on until close home—the Colonel having had another downer—when aery was raised that the leader was beat, and it was indeed evident that our worthy friend, the hon. secretary, was gradually catching him. Through the post and rail fence Courtney’s horse simply walked, smashing it up like firewood, and let the other through comfortably. Then neck and neck they struggled into the last field, and it was anybody’s race. The riders were more used up even than the horses, which ran locked together, and in one of his last violent and frantic struggles to secure victory the hon. secretary pushed his opponent slightly on the shoulder. This was the last straw, and poor Chris., unable to withstand the shock, fell off, leaving his foe to come on and win cleverly by half a length.
The Colonel, moreover, was still plodding on, and when the others had finished he had reached the water jump. The appearance of this did not please him, and on approaching it ho pulled up into a walk, and then stopped altogether, gazing at it critically and smiling benignly on the spectators who were crowded at that point. One of them offered him a drink, which was promptly accepted. Then did our gallant friend harden his heart, and walk up the trusty Norah to the obstacle in his path, attempting to jump it at a stand. The result may be imagined: the mare did her best, but jumped short, and gave her rider his third roll—neither being any the worse. The Colonel was once again safely planted in the saddle by his kind friends and urged on his perilous career, being eventually placed third by the judge, gaily humming as ho passed the post—
The rapture of pursuing
Is the prize the vanquished gain.
Wo hear a great deal nowadays about the decay of steeplechasing and the dearth of really good cross-country horses; while the suggestion has been made that if point-to-point races are encouraged they will ultimately have a beneficial influence on the sport generally. People will do well not to bo too sanguine on this point. The class of animals that run, and the class of men who ride, in an ordinary race of this kind are not likely to develop into good steeplechase performers: the horses have not the necessary breed, nor the jockeys the necessary skill. Both do their best doubtless, but both are strictly local, and local they will remain.
The riding at our point-to-point, as at most similar contests, was distinctly bad. A man may go fairly well in the hunting field and yet be absolutely no good at ail in a face, even with men of his own type and riding his own half-bred hunter. Most jockeys of this class appear to lose their heads directly they have started, and if they were questioned as to the incidents of the race in which they took part, their mind would be found a perfect blank. All they know is that they went as fast as they could as far as they could, and of course they would have won— it is the old story—if something had not interfered with them, or if they had been able to give the old horse just another gallop. If there is anything like a close finish the movements of their arms and legs are frantic and fatuous. They do the horse more harm than good, and at times they become so violent in their efforts to pass the post first that they seem extremely lucky to avoid tumbling off. Their action resembles that of swimmers more than jockeys, and they would be more at home in a bath.
All the same the local point-to-point steeplechases have their uses, and all good sportsmen will cordially support them. They bring numbers of a hunt together in a pleasant manner—also their wives and families, who enjoy a wholesome afternoon’s amusement in the open air, and have a good time all round. Then such contests help us to find out who has got the best hunter, even if they do not teach us how to ride him to the best advantage. But in time they may do this. Indeed, the probability is that they will have a more improving effect on the riders than on the horses, because, although we cannot all be accomplished cross country performers, we may all learn to ride a horse over a series of simple fences without making fools of ourselves.
But, leaving criticism on one side, there is no doubt our point- to-point was a great success, and we mean to have another. The right men won the prizes—not the men who expected to win them—and we all had a most enjoyable day out. Only one unpleasant incident marked the proceedings. The honorary secretary, after he had won his race, was publicly informed by the irrepressible Snooker that it was the biggest fluke on record, and that his riding was a disgrace to civilised man. They were only just separated in time.
G. G.
Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News, Saturday 17 November 1894