Part 15

They had! Diamond Stud, a four-year-old with eight stone two, was being backed as if the Cambridgeshire were over. From fifteens he advanced to sevens, thence to favouritism at fives. Pulcher bit on it. Jenning _must_ know where he stood with Calliope! It meant--it meant she couldn’t win! The tactician wasted no time in vain regret. Establish Calliope in the betting and lay off! The time had come to utilise The Shirker.

It was misty on the Downs--fine weather mist of a bright October. The three horses became spectral on their way to the starting-point. Polman had thrown The Parrot in again, but this time he made no secret of the weights. The Shirker was carrying eight seven, Calliope eight, The Parrot seven stone.

Once more, in the cart, with his glasses sweeping the bright mist, ‘Jimmy’ had that pit-patting in his heart. Here they came! His mare leading--all riding hard--a genuine finish! They passed--The Shirker beaten a clear length, with the Parrot at his girth. Beside him in the cart, George Pulcher mumbled:

“She’s The Shirker at eight stone four, Jimmy!”

A silent drive back to the river inn, big with thought; a silent breakfast. Over a tankard at the close the oracle spoke.

“The Shirker, at eight stone four, is a good ’ot chance, but no cert, Jimmy. We’ll let ’em know this trial quite open, weights and all. That’ll bring her in the betting. And we’ll watch Diamond Stud. If he drops back we’ll know Jenning thinks he can’t beat us now. If Diamond Stud stands up we’ll know Jenning thinks he’s still got our mare safe. Then our line’ll be clear: we lay off the lot, pick up a thousand or so, and ’ave the mare in at a nice weight at Liverpool.”

‘Jimmy’s’ smudged-in eyes stared hungrily.

“How’s that?” he said. “Suppose she wins?”

“Wins! If we lay off the lot, she _won’t_ win.”

“Pull her!”

George Pulcher’s voice sank half an octave with disgust.

“Pull her! Who talked of pullin’? She’ll run a bye, that’s all. We shan’t ever know whether she could ’a won or not.”

‘Jimmy’ sat silent; the situation was such as his life during sixteen years had waited for. They stood to win both ways with a bit of handling.

“Who’s to ride?” he said.

“Polman’s got a call on Docker. He can just ride the weight. Either way he’s good for us--strong finisher and a rare judge of distance; knows how to time things to a T. Win or not, he’s our man.”

‘Jimmy’ was deep in figures. Laying-off at sevens, they would still win four thousand and the stakes.

“I’d like a win,” he said.

“Ah!” said Pulcher. “But there’ll be twenty in the field, my son; no more uncertain race than that bally Cambridgeshire. We could pick up a thou. as easy as I pick up this pot. Bird in the ’and, Jimmy, and a good ’andicap in the bush. If she wins, she’s finished. Well, we’ll put this trial about and see ’ow Jenning pops.”

Jenning popped amazingly. Diamond Stud receded a point, then re-established himself at nine to two. Jenning was clearly not dismayed.

George Pulcher shook his head and waited, uncertain still which way to jump. Ironical circumstance decided him.

Term had begun; ‘Jimmy’ was busy at his seat of custom. By some miracle of guardianly intervention, young Colquhoun had not gone broke. He was ‘up’ again, eager to retrieve his reputation, and that little brute ‘Jimmy’ would not lay against his horse! He merely sucked-in his cheeks, and answered: “I’m not layin’ my own ’orse.” It was felt that he was not the man he had been; assertion had come into his manner, he was better dressed. Someone had seen him at the station looking quite a ‘toff’ in a blue box-cloth coat standing well out from his wisp of a figure, and with a pair of brown race-glasses slung over the shoulder. Altogether the ‘little brute was getting too big for his boots.’

And this strange improvement hardened the feeling that his horse was a real good thing. Patriotism began to burn in Oxford. Here was a ‘snip’ that belonged to them, as it were, and the money in support of it, finding no outlet, began to ball.

A week before the race--with Calliope at nine to one, and very little doing--young Colquhoun went up to town, taking with him the accumulated support of betting Oxford. That evening she stood at sixes. Next day the public followed on.

George Pulcher took advantage. In this crisis of the proceedings he acted on his own initiative. The mare went back to eights, but the deed was done. He had laid off the whole bally lot, including the stake money. He put it to ‘Jimmy’ that evening in a nutshell.

“We pick up a thousand, and the Liverpool as good as in our pocket. I’ve done worse.”

‘Jimmy’ grunted out: “She could ’a won.”

“Not she. Jenning knows--and there’s others in the race. This Wasp is goin’ to take a lot of catchin’, and Deerstalker’s not out of it. He’s a hell of a horse, even with that weight.”

Again ‘Jimmy’ grunted, slowly sucking down his gin and bitters. Sullenly he said:

“Well, I don’ want to put money in the pocket of young ‘Cocoon’ and his crowd. Like his impudence, backin’ my horse as if it was his own.”

“We’ll ’ave to go and see her run, Jimmy.”

“Not me,” said ‘Jimmy.’

“What! First time she runs! It won’t look natural.”

“No,” repeated ‘Jimmy.’ “I don’t want to see ’er beat.”

George Pulcher laid his hand on a skinny shoulder.

“Nonsense, Jimmy. You’ve got to, for the sake of your reputation. You’ll enjoy seein’ your mare saddled. We’ll go up over night. I shall ’ave a few pound on Deerstalker. I believe he can beat this Diamond Stud. And you leave Docker to me; I’ll ’ave a word with him at Gatwick to-morrow. I’ve known ’im since he was that ’igh; an’ ’e ain’t much more now.”

“All right!” growled ‘Jimmy.’

V

The longer you can bet on a race the greater its fascination. Handicappers can properly enjoy the beauty of their work; clubmen and oracles of the course have due scope for reminiscence and prophecy; bookmakers in lovely leisure can indulge a little their own calculated preferences, instead of being hurried to soulless conclusions by a half-hour’s market on the course; the professional backer has the longer in which to dream of his fortune made at last by some hell of a horse--spotted somewhere as interfered with, left at the post, running green, too fat, not fancied, backward--now bound to win this hell of a race. And the general public has the chance to read the horses’ names in the betting news for days and days; and what a comfort that is!

‘Jimmy’ Shrewin was not one of those philosophers who justify the great and growing game of betting on the ground that it improves the breed of an animal less and less in use. He justified it much more simply--he lived by it. And in the whole of his career of nearly twenty years since he made hole-and-corner books among the boys of London, he had never stood so utterly on velvet as that morning when his horse must win him five hundred pounds by merely losing. He had spent the night in London anticipating a fraction of his gains with George Pulcher at a music-hall. And, in a first-class carriage, as became an owner, he travelled down to Newmarket by an early special. An early special key turned in the lock of the carriage door, preserved their numbers at six, all professionals, with blank, rather rolling eyes, mouths shut or slightly fishy, ears to the ground; and the only natural talker a red-faced man, who had ‘been at it thirty years.’ Intoning the pasts and futures of this hell of a horse or that, even he was silent on the race in hand; and the journey was half over before the beauty of their own judgments loosened tongues thereon. George Pulcher started it.

“I fancy Deerstalker,” he said; “he’s a hell of a horse.”

“Too much weight,” said the red-faced man. “What about this Calliope?”

“Ah!” said Pulcher. “D’you fancy your mare, Jimmy?”

With all eyes turned on him, lost in his blue box-cloth coat, brown bowler, and cheroot smoke, ‘Jimmy’ experienced a subtle thrill. Addressing the space between the red-faced man and Pulcher, he said:

“If she runs up to ’er looks.”

“Ah!” said Pulcher, “she’s dark--nice mare, but a bit light and shelly.”

“Lopez out o’ Calendar,” muttered the red-faced man. “Lopez didn’t stay, but he was the hell of a horse over seven furlongs. The Shirker ought to ’ave told you a bit.”

‘Jimmy’ did not answer. It gave him pleasure to see the red-faced man’s eye trying to get past, and failing.

“Nice race to pick up. Don’t fancy the favourite meself; he’d nothin’ to beat at Ascot.”

“Jenning knows what he’s about,” said Pulcher.

Jenning! Before ‘Jimmy’s’ mind passed again that first sight of his horse, and the trainer’s smile, as if he--‘Jimmy’ Shrewin, who owned her--had been dirt. Tyke! To have the mare beaten by one of his! A deep, subtle vexation had oppressed him at times all these last days since George Pulcher had decided in favour of the mare’s running a bye. D----n George Pulcher! He took too much on himself! Thought he had ‘Jimmy’ Shrewin in his pocket! He looked at the block of crimson opposite. Aunt Sally! If George Pulcher could tell what was passing in his mind!

But driving up to the course he was not above sharing a sandwich and a flask. In fact, his feelings were unstable and gusty--sometimes resentment, sometimes the old respect for his friend’s independent bulk. The dignity of ownership takes long to establish itself in those who have been kicked about.

“All right with Docker,” murmured Pulcher, sucking at the wicker flask. “I gave him the office at Gatwick.”

“She could ’a won,” muttered ‘Jimmy.’

“Not she, my boy; there’s two at least can beat ’er.”

Like all oracles, George Pulcher could believe what he wanted to.

Arriving, they entered the grand-stand enclosure, and over the dividing railings ‘Jimmy’ gazed at the Cheap Ring, already filling-up with its usual customers. Faces, and umbrellas--the same old crowd. How often had he been in that Cheap Ring, with hardly room to move, seeing nothing, hearing nothing but “Two to one on the field!” “Two to one on the field!” “Threes Swordfish!” “Fives Alabaster!” “Two to one on the field!” Nothing but a sea of men like himself, and a sky overhead. He was not exactly conscious of criticism, only of a dull ‘Glad I’m shut of that lot’ feeling.

Leaving George Pulcher deep in conversation with a crony, he lighted a cheroot, and slipped out on to the course. He passed the Jockey Club enclosure. Some early ‘toffs’ were there in twos and threes, exchanging wisdom. He looked at them without envy or malice. He was an owner himself now, almost one of them in a manner of thinking. With a sort of relish he thought of how his past life had circled round those ‘toffs,’ slippery, shadowlike, kicked about; and now he could get up on the Downs away from ‘toffs,’ George Pulcher, all that crowd, and smell the grass, and hear the bally larks, and watch his own mare gallop!

They were putting the numbers up for the first race. Queer not to be betting, not to be touting round; queer to be giving it a rest! Utterly familiar with those names on the board, he was utterly unfamiliar with the shapes they stood for.

‘I’ll go and see ’em come out of the paddock,’ he thought, and moved on, skimpy in his bell-shaped coat and billycock with flattened brim. The clamour of the Rings rose behind him while he was entering the paddock.

Very green, very peaceful, there; not many people, yet! Three horses in the second race were being led slowly in a sort of winding ring; and men were clustering round the further gate where the horses would come out. ‘Jimmy’ joined them, sucking at his cheroot. They were a picture! Damn it! he didn’t know but that ’orses laid over men! Pretty creatures!

One by one they passed out of the gate, a round dozen. Selling platers, but pictures for all that!

He turned back towards the horses being led about; and the old instinct to listen took him close to little groups. Talk was all of the big race. From a tall ‘toff’ he caught the word Calliope.

“Belongs to a bookie, they say.”

Bookie! Why not? Wasn’t a bookie as good as any other? Ah! and sometimes better than these young snobs with everything to their hand! A bookie--well, what chance had he ever had?

A big brown horse came by.

“That’s Deerstalker,” he heard the ‘toff’ say.

‘Jimmy’ gazed at George Pulcher’s fancy with a sort of hostility. Here came another--Wasp, six stone ten, and Deerstalker nine stone--top and bottom of the race!

‘My ’orse’d beat either o’ them,’ he thought stubbornly. ‘Don’t like that Wasp.’

The distant roar was hushed. They were running in the first race! He moved back to the gate. The quick clamour rose and dropped, and here they came--back into the paddock, darkened with sweat, flanks heaving a little!

‘Jimmy’ followed the winner, saw the jockey weigh in.

“What jockey’s that?” he asked.

“That? Why, Docker!”

‘Jimmy’ stared. A short, square, bow-legged figure, with a hardwood face! Waiting his chance, he went up to him and said:

“Docker, you ride my ’orse in the big race.”

“Mr. Shrewin?”

“The same,” said ‘Jimmy.’ The jockey’s left eyelid drooped a little. Nothing responded in ‘Jimmy’s’ face. “I’ll see you before the race,” he said.

Again the jockey’s eyelid wavered, he nodded and passed on.

‘Jimmy’ stared at his own boots--they struck him suddenly as too yellow and not at the right angle. But why, he couldn’t say.

More horses now--those of the first race being unsaddled, clothed, and led away. More men--three familiar figures: young ‘Cocoon’ and two others of his Oxford customers.

‘Jimmy’ turned sharply from them. Stand their airs?--not he! He had a sudden sickish feeling. With a win, he’d have been a made man--on his own! Blast George Pulcher and his caution! To think of being back in Oxford with those young bloods jeering at his beaten horse! He bit deep into the stump of his cheroot, and suddenly came on Jenning standing by a horse with a star on its bay forehead. The trainer gave him no sign of recognition, but signed to the boy to lead the horse into a stall, and followed, shutting the door. It was exactly as if he had said: ‘Vermin about!’

An evil little smile curled ‘Jimmy’s’ lips. The tyke!

The horses for the second race passed out of the paddock gate, and he turned to find his own. His ferreting eyes soon sighted Polman. What the cat-faced fellow knew, or was thinking, ‘Jimmy’ could not tell. Nobody could tell.

“Where’s the mare?” he said.

“Just coming round.”

No mistaking her; fine as a star; shiny-coated, sinuous, her blazed face held rather high! Who said she was ’shelly’? She was a picture! He walked a few paces close to the boy.

“That’s Calliope.... H’m!... Nice filly!... Looks fit.... Who’s this James Shrewin?... What’s she at?... I like her looks.”

His horse! Not a prettier filly in the world!

He followed Polman into her stall to see her saddled. In the twilight there he watched her toilet; the rub-over; the exact adjustments; the bottle of water to the mouth; the buckling of the bridle--watched her head high above the boy keeping her steady with gentle pulls of a rein in each hand held out a little wide, and now and then stroking her blazed nose; watched her pretence of nipping at his hand: he watched the beauty of her exaggerated in this half-lit isolation away from the others, the life and litheness in her satin body, the wilful expectancy in her bright soft eyes.

Run a bye! This bit o’ blood--this bit o’ fire! This horse of his! Deep within that shell of blue box-cloth against the stall partition a thought declared itself: ‘I’m ---- if she shall! She can beat the lot! And she’s ---- well going to!’

The door was thrown open, and she led out. He moved alongside. They were staring at her, following her. No wonder! She was a picture, his horse--his! She had gone to ‘Jimmy’s’ head.

They passed Jenning with Diamond Stud waiting to be mounted. ‘Jimmy’ shot him a look. Let the ---- wait!

His mare reached the palings and was halted. ‘Jimmy’ saw the short square figure of her jockey, in the new magenta cap and jacket--_his_ cap, _his_ jacket! Beautiful they looked, and no mistake!

“A word with you,” he said.

The jockey halted, looked quickly round.

“All right, Mr. Shrewin. No need.”

‘Jimmy’s’ eyes smouldered at him; hardly moving his lips, he said, intently: “You ---- well don’t! You’ll ---- well ride her to win. Never mind _him_! If you don’t, I’ll have you off the Turf. Understand me! You’ll ---- well ride ’er to win.”

The jockey’s jaw dropped.

“All right, Mr. Shrewin.”

“See it is,” said ‘Jimmy’ with a hiss....

“Mount jockeys!”

He saw magenta swing into the saddle. And suddenly, as if smitten with the plague, he scuttled away.

VI

He scuttled to where he could see them going down--seventeen. No need to search for his colours; they blazed, like George Pulcher’s countenance, or a rhododendron bush in sunlight, above that bright chestnut with the white nose, curvetting a little as she was led past.

Now they came cantering--Deerstalker in the lead.

“He’s a hell of a horse, Deerstalker!” said someone behind.

‘Jimmy’ cast a nervous glance around. No sign of George Pulcher!

One by one they cantered past, and he watched them with a cold feeling in his stomach. Still unused to sight of the creatures out of which he made his living, they _all_ seemed to him hells of horses!

The same voice said:

“New colours! Well, you can see ’em, and the mare too. She’s a showy one. Calliope? She’s goin’ back in the bettin’, though.”

‘Jimmy’ moved up through the Ring.

“Four to one on the field!” “Six Deerstalker!” “Sevens Magistrate!” “Ten to one Wasp!” “Ten to one Calliope!” “Four to one Diamond Stud--Four to one on the field!”

Steady as a rock, that horse of Jenning, and his own going back!

“Twelves Calliope!” he heard, just as he reached the stand. The telepathic genius of the Ring missed nothing--almost!

A cold shiver went through him. What had he done by his words to Docker? Spoiled the golden egg laid so carefully? But perhaps she couldn’t win even if they let her! He began to mount the stand, his mind in the most acute confusion.

A voice said: “Hullo, Jimmy! Is she going to win?”

One of his young Oxford sparks was jammed against him on the stairway!

He raised his lip in a sort of snarl, and, huddling himself, slipped through and up ahead. He came out and edged in close to the stairs where he could get play for his glasses. Behind him one of those who improve the shining hour among backers cut off from opportunity was intoning the odds a point shorter than below. “Three to one on the field!” “Fives Deerstalker!” “Eight to one Wasp!”

“What price Calliope?” said ‘Jimmy’ sharply.

“Hundred to eight.”

“Done!” Handing him the eight, he took the ticket. Behind him the man’s eyes moved fishily, and he resumed his incantation.

“Three to one on the field!... Three to one on the field! Six to one Magistrate!”

On the wheeling bunch of colours at the start ‘Jimmy’ trained his glasses. Something had broken clean away and come half the course--something in yellow.

“Eights Magistrate. Nine to one Magistrate,” drifted up.

So they had spotted that! Precious little they didn’t spot!

Magistrate was round again, and being ridden back. ‘Jimmy’ rested his glasses a moment, and looked down. Swarms in the Cheap Ring, Tattersalls, the stands--a crowd so great you could lose George Pulcher in it. Just below a little man was making silent, frantic signals with his arms to someone across in the Cheap Ring. ‘Jimmy’ raised his glasses. In line now--magenta third from the rails!

“They’re off!” The hush, you could cut it with a knife! Something in green away on the right--Wasp! What a bat they were going! And a sort of numbness in ‘Jimmy’s’ mind cracked suddenly; his glasses shook; his thin, weasley face became suffused and quivered. Magenta--magenta--two from the rails! He could make no story of the race such as he would read in to-morrow’s paper--he could see nothing but magenta.

Out of the dip now, and coming fast--green still leading--something in violet, something in tartan, closing.

“Wasp’s beat!” “The favourite--the favourite wins!” “Deerstalker--Deerstalker wins! What’s that in pink on the rails?”

It was _his_ in pink on the rails! Behind him a man went suddenly mad.

“Deerstalker! Come on with ’im, Stee! Deerstalker’ll win--Deerstalker’ll win!”

‘Jimmy’ sputtered venomously: “Will ’e? Will ’e?”

Deerstalker and his own out from the rest--opposite the Cheap Ring--neck and neck--Docker riding like a demon.

“Deerstalker! Deerstalker!” “Calliope wins! She wins!”

Gawd! His horse! They flashed past--fifty yards to go, and not a head between ’em!

“Deerstalker! Deerstalker!” “Calliope!”

He saw his mare shoot out--she’d won!

With a little queer sound he squirmed and wriggled on to the stairs. No thoughts while he squeezed, and slid, and hurried--only emotion--out of the Ring, away to the paddock. His horse!

Docker had weighed in when he reached the mare. All right! He passed with a grin. ‘Jimmy’ turned almost into the body of Polman standing like an image.

“Well, Mr. Shrewin,” he said to nobody, “she’s won.”

‘Damn you!’ thought ‘Jimmy.’ ‘Damn the lot of you!’ And he went up to his mare. Quivering, streaked with sweat, impatient of the gathering crowd, she showed the whites of her eyes when he put his hand up to her nose.

“Good girl!” he said, and watched her led away.

‘Gawd! I want a drink!’ he thought.

Gingerly, keeping a sharp lookout for Pulcher, he returned to the stand to get it, and to draw his hundred. But up there by the stairs the discreet fellow was no more. On the ticket was the name O. H. Jones, and nothing else. ‘Jimmy’ Shrewin had been welshed! He went down at last in a bad temper. At the bottom of the staircase stood George Pulcher. The big man’s face was crimson, his eyes ominous. He blocked ‘Jimmy’ into a corner.

“Ah!” he said. “You little crow! What the ’ell made you speak to Docker?”

‘Jimmy’ grinned. Some new body within him stood there defiant. “She’s my ’orse,” he said.

“You ---- Gawd-forsaken rat! If I ’ad you in a quiet spot, I’d shake the life out of you!”

‘Jimmy’ stared up, his little spindle legs apart, like a cock-sparrow confronting an offended pigeon.

“Go ’ome,” he said, “George Pulcher; and get your mother to mend your socks. You don’t know ’ow! Thought I wasn’t a man, did you? Well, now you ---- well know I am. Keep off my ’orse in future.”

Crimson rushed up on crimson in Pulcher’s face; he raised his heavy fists. ‘Jimmy’ stood, unmoving, his little hands in his bell-coat pockets, his withered face upraised. The big man gulped as if swallowing back the tide of blood; his fists edged forward and then--dropped.

“That’s better,” said ‘Jimmy,’ “hit one of your own size.”

Emitting a deep growl, George Pulcher walked away.

“Two to one on the field--I’ll back the field--Two to one on the field.” “Threes Snowdrift--Fours Iron Dook.”

‘Jimmy’ stood a moment mechanically listening to the music of his life; then, edging out, he took a fly and was driven to the station.

All the way up to town he sat chewing his cheroot with the glow of drink inside him, thinking of that finish, and of how he had stood up to George Pulcher. For a whole day he was lost in London, but Friday saw him once more at his seat of custom in the ‘Corn.’ Not having laid against his horse, he had had a good race in spite of everything; yet, the following week, uncertain into what further quagmires of quixotry she might lead him, he sold Calliope.

But for years betting upon horses that he never saw, underground like a rat, yet never again so accessible to the kicks of fortune, or so prone before the shafts of superiority, he would think of the Downs with the blinkin’ larks singin’, and talk of how once he--had a horse.

1923.