Racing with the“Blazers.”
AT the end of each hunting season the members of the renowned Slushtown “Blazers”—a pack of hounds noted for their slowness in the field and their speed in going home— become animated by an uncontrollable ambition to run their hunters against each other in long-distance races over a country, as if those poor creatures had not had enough running after various sturdy foxes during the preceding five months. Verily the appearance of the unfortunate hunters when March arrives suggests the reflection that they have not had time to eat much during the winter, and that what they have eaten has done them no good.
But it is no use talking seriously to a “Blazer” on the subject of fox catching. What he wants continually is more sport, not mere sympathy for his horses. Ho buys the latter to gallop about the pleasant fields a great deal with him on their back; bo does not mind if they look thin and haggard and show an expression of extreme despondency. Besides, every “Blazer” is convinced, when hounds are in full cry and he is after them, that he is the best “Blazer” of them all, and that his own champion cock-tail can beat all his friends’ flyers without a doubt in a four-mile gallop at even weights over a natural country. To make it a certainty, as he thinks, he decides to act as his own jockey; and he frequently falls off on the flat. That is the only good luck his hunters enjoy.
It is easy to guess what is usually the result of such vaulting ambition as that under notice. We sacrifice everything—including purse and person—in the interests of sport. Our point- to-point races have become an established institution in our sweetly rural district; and it is a pleasure to attend them, not so much on account of the large sums of money to bo won by an unscrupulous visitor who cherishes that object almost exclusively in his heart, as by reason of the picturesque scenery which gives quite a Watteau air to our “Blazer” revelries. Yet of those present there are few, as a rule, whose natures may bo truly described as idyllic. The majority are either mercenary or are after what they can get while the daylight lasts, and the others don’t count, or at least are hardly worth computation.
Our worthy Master, who has made a great deal of money in business, is noted for his admirable faculty of organisation. To that he attributes his commercial success in life; he is certainly too rich to argue with. You cannot enjoy his perfect friendship unless you listen with consistent admiration to all his statements, many of which are absurd, mid most of which are untrue; and this is worth doing if your yearly income is not equal to your half-yearly expenditure. It is sometimes convenient to borrow a little gold, however inconvenient it may bo to pay it back. But that is the lender’s anxiety, of course. It is wise occasionally to hold the candle to Plutus.
When the end of our last hunting season was reached the Master, thankful no doubt that he had been neither killed nor mutilated during the enjoyment of his winter’s sport, proposed a further series of festivities; we all said, “Hear, hear! ” with enthusiasm and almost at the same time. We generally say “hear, hear,” very quickly, and stamp our feet when the Master speaks. He stated that we must have some really good point- to-point races, so as to finish the season in a blaze of triumph; and of course we cheered rapturously. The man who pays the piper ought to have plenty of music. Since then our point-to- point has become extremely popular; and old Snooker now declares, in a voice husky from emotion and other causes, that if he wins the Light-Weight Cup again he shall ride in the next Grand National.
In response, somebody said “Rats!’’ not ironically or rudely, but with an air of conviction; for of all the champion perverters of angelical truth still roaming about the world for base purposes of his own, Snooker enjoys the distinction in our small circle of being top-weight. For the interests of sport, he says, he is pre pared to suffer much, even in regard to what is most dear to him, viz., his reputation; but those who have sportive transactions with him are aware that the suffering is not all on his side, and that at the finish he generally has a “bit up his sleeve,” as the saying is, and more in his pocket. Snooker is bad to beat when there is anything worth winning to be won.
There was an idea at one time in connection with our point- to-point races that the Master himself would ride his heavy-weight hunter Splayfoot for the Subscribers’ Cup. That anticipation caused great excitement amongst those of us who are of an emotional nature. As Splayfoot is as slow as a funeral and destroys more than he jumps, greatly to the delight of his owner when he retains his seat; as, moreover, our worthy Master weighs 17st and carries a great deal of it in one p lace- need I specify his conspicuous abdominal development ?—the frivolous amongst his subscribers expected some fun from his performance in the steeplechase. They did not wish to see him hurt, only tossed about for their amusement.
Anxious, as usual, to make money in a congenial occupation, Snooker offered to lay the Master 100 to 8 twice that he did not finish in the first six, and 2 to 1 once that he came unglued at the drop fence on the fur side of the course if he were not strapped on. He certainly could not sit back when alighting; and truly enough may it be mentioned at tins point that Snooker never misses a chance of adding by judicious speculation to his small golden store.
But, unfortunately for him, no business was done on this occasion. The Master’s wife seems to be rather fond of her husband; and when he hinted to her, after kissing her as though he really liked it, that his wish was to ride a horse in a race once before he died, she asked him in an awful tone whether he wished to die before he had made more money. That settled the question; there was nothing more to be said. Our Master is still, under racing rules, entitled to the maiden allowance. He looks like holding it to the end of the chapter. A man who can make a great deal of money is not expected to do anything else except spend it.
When the eventful day of our races arrived, we were all excited, and put on our best sporting clothes. The farmers’ race for a cup (about three miles over a fair hunting country) was placed first on the card, and aroused great interest. Snooker, who made a book on each event, laid six to four boldly against every runner in a field of a dozen; as he said, “Good business, my boy, the bloomers all back their own, and I’m soon over-round on the book.” He then whispered to me, as the numbers went up, “This is really good for old Ballyfat; get on at once before the price shortens, the others won’t see the way he goes when he’s really going, and to-day I know he’s on the job. His owner wants money. Lose no time.”
Thus inspired, I invested a couple of sovereigns on Ballyfat with a bookmaker whose voice was bull-like in its intensity; and, reposing on a horse-rug in the weighing-room, I awaited the result of the race with considerable anxiety. A couple of sovereigns is not a large sum to lose when you have a couple more. If not, the sense of impending destitution is far from invigorating.
The farmers’ race did not look to bo a good thing in running for Ballyfat. The old horse had evidently become very slow. While he jumped as cleverly as ever, he took so much time in doing it that the suspense was painful; we had to hold our breath too long. He hoisted himself into the air, and seemed to poise there for a time, as if looking for a spot on which he might safely land. When he descended to earth once again he stopped to collect his faculties, and to see whither he had to flee next, and to gasp for relief. He always liked to look before he leaped, and to grunt afterwards. He did not wish to hurry himself on the flat or elsewhere. Thus we had plenty of fun for our money in watching his exertions, although I was naturally anxious about that couple of sovereigns.
Between the last two fences it looked any odds against our champion. He was three lengths behind the leader; his tail was whirling with great rapidity. He was obviously in trouble. I felt sorry for him, knowing what I had at stake. His rural rider had got his whip half way up, believing it to be fully elevated, and in his efforts to hit poor Ballyfat was flicking the flies off his quarters in a reckless manner. A young horse, ridden by the farmer who owned him, was in front, and appeared to have the race in hand. But his jockey, who, as the goal was reached, became frantic in his movements, loosed his horse’s head as he landed over the final obstacle, lost both irons, beat tire air with his whip with an idea that he was beating the horse ; while the latter, afraid of catching a fluke hit, swerved across the course instead of running straight on to the winning post. It was glorious!
That was the renowned Ballyfat’s opportunity. He could go no faster, but ambled along up the straight in the gamest manner direct to the man in the box; and before his opponent could be righted he had passed the post a winner by a length. A young donkey could have beaten him for speed at the finish. Yet it was a brilliant triumph for all of us who had pecuniary interests involved. There was quite a glow in my heart, for I had landed my bet, and than the sensation of doing that I know of few more pleasing.
Then the wily Snooker came to me with smiling visage, and said: “Well, what did I tell you, dear boy? wasn’t that a real good thing, eh? I kept it for the book, you know, and backed it at a long price in running. We’ll make the bucolics quiver before we have done with them this day.” He shook my hand warmly.
It seemed—and he told me so after a little while—that Snooker had a second deep-laid scheme in his mind for exploitation during the afternoon. After referring to his card he remarked: “For the next race I’ve another pinch, better than the last by far. We can go nap on this with a light heart. I ride my old hunter Ugly Mug in the race for the Subscribers’ Cup, and he’s going for the book. Now, you mind what I’m telling you, and bless me another time. The old horse never was so well, and jumps now without groaning as if he had hurt something inside. He can’t be beat this afternoon; get on him at once.”
Knowing that Snooker had been at the game all his life, though his nerve is not what it was in his younger days,—and who can wonder considering how he will see the lights out even now?—I backed his second good thing with confidence. It was a curious race, one to watch with amusement. Snooker only just won by what the racing reporters call “superior jockeyship.” Our young friend Percy Miggins on a well-bred hunter with a turn of speed, jumped the last fence alongside of Ugly Mug, and in the run-in must surely have beaten him for pace.
But, fortunately for us, Miggins could not ride any sort of a finish. He did not seem to have a clear idea where he was or what he was doing after jumping the last fence, his excitement being tremendous at that crisis. When he began the series of struggles which he intended to represent the art of “finishing,” he was all abroad; and Snooker bumped hard against him as though from distress, the result being that Miggins, exhausted by the violence of his efforts, almost rolled off his horse a short distance from the winning-post and was obliged to pull him up. Then, of course, Snooker came in by himself, as the other competitors were still waddling across the last field, all beat to the uttermost gasp; and that was how we brought off our second coup the same afternoon. The profits were considerable. Snooker was perfectly radiant as he rode Ugly Mug back to weigh in. He winked at me en passant, as if to indicate how easily he could ride winners when the other man nearly fell off; and knowing how much cash I had to receive the glow of success warmed my heart again, and I winked back with equal favour.
Yet there was a little trouble to come. A kind friend told Miggins (who did not recover consciousness for some time after being rescued from under his horse’s bosom) that he had been deliberately “bumped” by Snooker, and that it was his duty as a sell-respecting sportsman to pull Snooker’s nose. With a view to the fulfilment of that duty, Miggins came to our dressing tent, and solemnly declared before all the people there that his intention was to twitch Snooker’s nostrils. He flourished Jus fingers as a sort of preliminary canter.
“Please don’t carry out your fell design,” said Snooker genially; “my nose is long enough already, and I don’t want it pulled. It would do you no good to touch it. Let us be gentlemen and settle our dispute in a knightly manner. Either swords, pistols, or spears will suit me; but”—here the speaker lunged furiously at an imag nary foe—“I prefer a good long spear. It is more ghastly.”
Hearing these warlike sentiments, Mr. Miggins turned pale, and went to consult his friends again. He did not care to act on his own responsibility in an affair of this kind. The suggestion as to employing a spear to perforate his person seemed to have destroyed his martial ardour. He made no more threats of interference with any part of Snooker’s countenance, but walked out of the weighing-room peacefully enough. We saw no more of him. Happily the noble nose of Snooker was not pulled; but, even without the performance of that act of retribution, the afternoon’s festivities had been sufficiently exciting.
As we drove home in the beautiful twilight after the races, admiring the scenery and wondering what there was for dinner, Snooker said, “I like to play with the jolly rustics, don’t you know? One can shuffle the cards according to taste. But you must not be found with an ace up your sleeve; therefore the sooner a card of that value is played the better. But, whatever happens, always have a tale ready; for drink is not the only thing the jolly rustics swallow.”
He then directed my attention to the glorious apparition of the setting sun, which made the sky wondrously beautiful on one side of the road, and he inquired pensively whether I had any music in my soul.
“I’ve a little money in my pocket” I replied, tapping that receptacle; and he drove on in silence. He does not always get the best of it when I’m feeling well.
H. G. H.
Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News, Saturday 20 November 1897