CHAPTER XXX

_At the Races_

"Horse-racing is undoubtedly the sport of kings," I observed to Mrs. Underbunk, as we sat on the club-house balcony at Morris Park, yesterday.

"Undoubtedly," she said sweetly. "But kings, you know, are a pretty bad lot."

Of course she did not really mean it, but she has a way of railing at things just to be clever, yet it struck me that there might possibly be some underlying sense in her remark. It was rather unfair of her, however, as she had just cashed in on Morgan Styne's Sassafras at 10 to 1. When I suggested that she was a bit inconsistent, she retorted that she had only a woman's passion for gambling.

"Last year I went to Nice for Lent, thinking it would be quiet down there," she said. "As a result I lost six months' allowance at Monte Carlo."

"You are safe here," said I laughing. "There are no wheels running in New York. We do not allow gambling in this State."

She opened her blue eyes so wide that to escape their baneful influence I ran away to the ring, ostensibly to put up a hundred for her at 7 to 1 on the Garish stable's Umbrella.

Now horse-racing may be the sport of kings, but I maintain that it is still very respectable, and I have no sympathy with the bigots who are constantly attacking the tracks. These tracks are owned and supported by our very best people, and it is quite the smartest thing you can do to run a stable. Take, for instance, our little party yesterday--the Morgan Stynes, Evelyn Garish with Harry, the Plumstones, and Timpleton Duff--all with horses running, besides dozens of others we know. Would they support anything that was not eminently proper? The charge is made that it is gambling. Harry Garish or Timpey Duff would no more have their names connected with the ownership of a gambling-establishment than they would die, but they support racing because it is a noble sport; it takes people out-of-doors, out in the fresh air and sunshine, among the green lawns and trees; and is there anything more exciting, more exhilarating, than to see the thorough-breds struggling for the mastery, when you stand to win or lose a few thousands? Fortunate, indeed, is the public to have such men as Garish and Duff working in the interest of clean sport, and putting it on a thoroughly business-like and paying basis, men whose fathers' names were symbols of integrity in the business world, whose own names head the subscription lists of every charity in the city. As I told Mrs. Underbunk, Garish is the moving spirit in the Anti-pool-room League, and has done a great deal for the community in ridding it of those gambling-holes, which are so demoralizing to the wage-earners. She immediately inquired whether the thousands of men and women we saw all about us consulting their information sheets were not wage-earners, thinking of course that she had me cornered, but I was able to reply like a flash that they were not--most of them got their money in other ways.

Womanlike, she was not satisfied, but went on to inquire if Garish had tried to root out gambling at the tracks.

An absurd question! But patiently, as simply as I could, I explained to her that while a few persons might watch horses race just to see which was the fastest, the great majority of the public demanded the additional interest given by an opportunity to make ten dollars by risking one. It cost a great deal to support the tracks and stables, and no company of philanthropists living would dare to go into such a venture without being sure of enough gate-receipts to pay expenses, and twenty per cent. on the money invested. The betting-ring was, therefore, a necessity if we were to have the glorious sport at all.

Mrs. Underbunk was only about half satisfied, but she is a very strict little soul in her theories, and I saw that it was useless to argue with her. That she had come at all was a surprise to me, but Evelyn Garish asked her up to their Westchester house to spend a few days, and help her with the bazaar they are to have at Lazydays, to secure money for the work of St. Simon's parish. She suggested that we all meet at the track yesterday, as her filly Umbrella was to run in the May Handicap and would be a sure thing at long odds, so I agreed to take Gladys up in my car. We were to have had luncheon at the club-house with the Garishes and their party, which included the Stynes, the Duffs, and the Plumstones, but as luck would have it a policeman held me up for over-speeding on Seventh Avenue, and took us to the police-station. What a nuisance those fellows are! He said we were running at twenty-five miles an hour, though my chauffeur and I both swore that our machine could not do better than eight, under any circumstances. Fortunately, the police-court was still in session nearby, and I was able to get away after giving cash bail to appear next Wednesday. The judge was a very decent fellow and apologized for holding me. He said it was the law, to which I retorted emphatically that the law should be changed, as I was getting thoroughly tired of being arrested every time I took out my car. For fear of another interruption by the police I had to proceed very slowly, and after we reached the track we had hardly more than enough time to swallow a bite of luncheon before the call for the first race.

There was quite a gathering of the clans, and I must say it was very jolly to see everybody again, fresh and rested after their Lenten seclusion. Long Island and Westchester seemed to have emptied themselves into the club-house. Jack Twitters was there with his two daughters, and Julius Hogginson Fairfield in close attendance on Constance. Charley Bullington, who was in on the recent bulge in Potash common, brought up the Verys and Lord Less on his new coach, and made a mess of it, after he passed the gates, as his leaders got beyond his control, when Winthrop Jumpkin, 7th, came up behind in that infernal car he hires. It sounds like a rolling-mill in busy times. The Earl of Less jumped and landed in a bush, scratching himself severely, though he would have been perfectly safe on top as a half-dozen policemen and a couple of grooms were hanging to the fractious pair. Then there were the Plumstones, Gastly, with some men from the Cholmondeley Club, and a number of the professional horsey set who seem to stable themselves somewhere for the winter, and come forth in the spring with red faces and waistcoats.

Gladys Underbunk is a thorough-going sport in a quiet way, for when Morgan Styne had tipped me on his Sassafras and I had told her what a good thing it was, she got a small roll out of the recesses of her automobile-coat, and asked me to put up twenty-five for her to win. As Sassafras was understood to be a cripple, and the tipsters had Uncle Bill as a sure thing, I got 10 to 1 on the Styne colt, and he won in a romp. It was a splendid race. This was sport at its best, as I pointed out to Gladys. The air, clear and soft; the sunshine glimmering over the rolling greensward; the gay, happy thousands keyed to the highest pitch of excitement, while the clean-limbed horses, the brightly clad boys crouching tight in the saddles, struggled nose-and-nose for the mastery, then flashed under the wire with the gallant little Sassafras full two lengths in the lead--this was glorious. Mrs. Underbunk asked why there was not more enthusiasm over the winner, and I, of course, had to explain that Uncle Bill at 2 to 1 carried the money of the crowd, and as he had broken down at the entrance to the stretch, there was naturally some disappointment among the masses. Simple creature! When I handed her a roll of $275 she was loath to take it, said that it seemed wrong to make money so easily, and wanted to know whose it was. When she heard that it came from the bookies she was concerned lest they could not afford it, but I explained that they had got it from the crowd who had mostly backed Uncle Bill. Then she wanted to know if I knew of any other good things.

Julius Hogginson Fairfield came strutting up, all smiles, and told us in an offhand way that he had put up five hundred on Sassafras, making quite a killing. It sounded very well, only I had happened to be right in line behind him when he placed a ten-dollar bill on the Styne colt. But people do like to give the impression of being real sports. I was tempted to remark that men who had to depend on their brains for a living, like writers, had no business risking even ten on the result of a race, but I decided to leave him happy in the profound impression he had created as a wise one. Though we did not ask him, he followed us down to the paddock with Evelyn Garish when we went to look over their Umbrella, and he declared positively that he was going to bet his imaginary five thousand straight and place on the black filly. But when I heard that Pebble, the darky, was to be up in place of Tomlinson, the boy who rides regularly for the Garish stable but was under suspension, I got my friend Cantle, the trainer, behind a tree and consulted him. Evelyn Garish said she would never forgive herself if we did not back Umbrella, for she believed it was like finding money, and I had to assure her that I would, but when Mrs. Underbunk handed me $100 I whispered to her for permission to use my own judgment. It came so straight from that trainer that 4 to 1 on Doctor B. to win seemed too good a thing to miss. In all my life I have never seen such a poor race. Doctor B., undoubtedly the best of the lot, was practically left at the post, thanks to the starter, and the Garish filly led all the way and finished in a walk. Mrs. Underbunk was so wildly excited over the result that she forgot all about there ever having been any other horse in the race at all, and I just had not the courage to enlighten her. So when she told me to hurry down to those dear bookies and get her money, I returned to a quiet spot and found solace in a Scotch and soda. Then I counted eight hundred out of my own pocket and went back to the balcony and paid up, and effusively thanked Mrs. Garish for having let me know about Umbrella. It was pretty hard to have to look pleased to death, after Doctor B. had taken a large part of my money, in addition to my settling with Gladys. Then to make matters worse, that infernal Fairfield had to come bowling up and intimate that he had hit the ring for close to twenty thousand, though I had seen him pass a small roll of tens into the hands of the shirt-sleeved gentleman who takes in the money for J. Cohen.

Still Mrs. Underbunk's gratitude was worth paying for. She had got thoroughly into the spirit of the sport, and wanted to know if I had any more good things. I asked her playfully if she did not think betting was wrong.

"It is delightfully wrong," said she seriously. "But I understand those book-makers are a horrid lot of men, and why shouldn't I take their money?"

So she made a sentimental bet on Harry Garish to win the steeple-chase at two miles and a half, on Fencerail, heavily weighted. Garish did not seem to have a ghost of a chance on his ancient jumper, and was quoted at times as long as 20 to 1. I got her 15 to 1 for a hundred, but was wise myself. I always was afraid of steeple-chases, particularly with gentlemen riders up. Fencerail was never in the running till the last two jumps, one of which Blue Fox, the favorite, refused absolutely, while the second sent Tommy Tattler off his Rockaway into the water. It was a positive sin the way Fencerail came home lengths in front of the surviving bunch.

By this time I inwardly vowed that I should follow Mrs. Underbunk, and at least quit the game even. Gastly came up and said that he liked Primrose in the fourth, and she declared sweetly that she would back anything Mr. Gastly liked. So I proceeded to send my money along with hers, and Primrose came down the stretch when the bugle was calling, the fifth to the post. Gastly was not seen about the club-house again. With a like result in the last two with horses chosen for their pretty names, I had not enough money left to give cash bail, so the run over to Lazydays was made at a very sedate speed. However, I did not mind going slowly. The Garishes in their brake, with the Stynes, Cecil Hash, and Sally Bilberry passed us on the road, and when I explained that the machine was out of order, they wanted Gladys Underbunk to go on with them. Delightful woman! She refused. She was in the highest of spirits with a couple of thousand in winnings tucked away in her automobile-coat, and I was quite consoled for my own losses. When I railed at her for the sudden change in her views on betting, she replied that she thought racing was fairer than roulette, because you could get inside information, like our tip on Umbrella.

Luck changed a bit last night. I won quite a little at bridge from Cecil Hash and Evelyn Garish. This morning I am feeling brighter, but I am staying in my room, as the rector at St. Simon's always bores me to death. This afternoon I am to try a little golf, though I have not played it in years. I feel that I need some violent exercise.

* * * * *

Mr. Mudison married Mrs. Underbunk at St. Simon's in June. The wedding was a quiet one, but so important, because of the character of the contracting parties, that full details of it were given at the time in the newspaper accounts. The ceremony was the simplest possible, there being no bridesmaids, though the bride had as pages her two small sons, Devereux and Maltravers Underbunk. Mr. Gastly was best man, and there was a small breakfast later at Mrs. Garish's country house. Many pages of Mr. Mudison's manuscripts are devoted to the days preceding this important event in his life, but when it is considered that after all he chronicles only an everyday romance, that he is telling again the story that has been told thousands and thousands of times before, it is readily understood why this part of his memoirs is not deemed of great value. Of far more interest it is to see him settled down happily with his wife and step-children in a modest house; and it is with this epoch that the next part of his edited papers has to do. But to some persons there may be a tragedy in this line in the recent _Social Register_: Mudison, Mr. & Mrs. Madison (Gladys Tinkle--Underbunk), C., H. '90--Lexington Avenue.