Part 8

Third Heat.

Gilpatrick and I took our old position under the wire, with many misgivings as to the fate of our combined fortunes, the $13 that hung upon the result of this heat. For the first time Boston began to show the ugly side of his disposition by sulking. As they were led up to start he repeatedly refused to go, and when the drum was finally tapped, having the inside, he bolted toward the fence. Cornelius pulled him out, and then he ran diagonally across the track towards the outside. In the meantime Hartman was sending the dead game son of Hedgford, along, and by the time Cornelius got Boston straight and on his stride the magnificent brown had taken the track and was running smoothly more than fifty yards in front. These positions were maintained until they reached the head of the stretch. Here Boston showed another peculiar trait in his disposition, and one for which he afterwards became noted, the shouting of a crowd seemed to inspire him and make him run faster. As they turned into the stretch with Duane so far in advance his friends began to cheer. The sound no sooner reached Boston’s ears than he began of his own accord to make a run at Duane, and so rapidly did he run down the stretch that when they passed under the wire he was only two open lengths away. Going around the lower turn both riders eased up their horses, but on entering the back stretch Cornelius made a run with Boston at Duane and at the half mile had closed out all the daylight between them.

But rounding the upper turn Duane shook him off and entered the stretch an open length and a half in front. Again a great shout went up from the backers of the peerless brown stallion as they saw his move, and again as the sound reached Boston it seemed to lend him wings. Running true and straight as a bullet flies, without touch of whip, the whitefaced son of Timoleon began to devour the space that separated him from his antagonist, and as they passed the stand at the end of the second mile his white nose was at Duane’s hip. Going around the lower turn the boys again took easy pulls on their horses, and in this position they go up the stretch and around the upper turn, Boston holding his place with the tenacity of a bull dog. But the white star of Duane is still in front as they swing into the stretch, and again his backers greet him with a cheer and again “old white nose” takes the compliment to himself and promptly, in response, he quickens his stride and again reaches Duane. Half-way down the stretch he collars him, and as they pass the stand his white nose is in front for the first time since starting on this last heat. It was now the time for Boston’s friends to cheer, and if pandemonium had broken loose more noise could not have been made. Men were simply wild with excitement. They danced about like children; hats, coats and canes were thrown into the air. Gilpatrick and I hugged each other and shouted ourselves hoarse, and, as the horses rounded the lower turn, the shouting increased, as it was seen that Boston, inspired by the shouting, no doubt, had kept up his killing stride and had taken the track from Duane. But to experienced riders like Gil and I this sudden change in position was rather a source of uneasiness. We both knew Hartman well. He was every inch a rider and a cool and skillful horseman, and we could see that he had taken a strong pull on his horse, saving him for the terrific finish he knew was yet to come. Knowing from our own experience in the saddle what was coming we paid no attention to the over-sanguine friends of Boston shouting: “Duane has quit!” “Duane has quit!” We knew the horse and we knew the rider, and we also knew that a race for life was coming and our fortunes were on the issue. So we anxiously watched them as they raced nose and tail, with Boston leading up the back side and around the upper turn.

Just before entering the stretch for home Hartman began to move on Duane. “He’s coming!” “He’s coming!” Gil whispered, for he was too excited to speak, and we both stood speechless watching the fierce battle that was opening a quarter of a mile away. Cornelius rides Boston a little wide on turning in the stretch in order that his whip hand might be free to drive. Hartman sees the opening thus made next the rail and rushes Duane in it. It was skillful riding on both sides. Hartman had no whip, but rode with spurs, while Cornelius had no spurs, for Boston would not stand them, but rode with a whip, and if Hartman in a tight finish could get so close to Cornelius on his whip side as to prevent him from using the lash he would have a big advantage. This Cornelius prevented by riding a little out on the turn. The spurt of Duane was greeted with the old-time cheer of his backers. “He comes! he comes!” “See him come!” went up from the throats of thousands, but it ceased almost as suddenly as it began, for the red horse is coming with him, and at that moment not a hand’s breadth divides them. But Hartman’s judgment in saving his horse now begins to tell, and inch by inch the brown stud begins to slowly but surely draw away. First a nose, then a head, then a neck and shoulders he pushes to the front. Hartman’s knee is at Boston’s head. Duane is a half length in front and only an eighth of a mile to run. Can he hold? Cornelius shifts both reins to his left hand, the cat-gut whirls above his head and falls upon the flank of Boston, cutting the thin skin of the thoroughbred like a knife. Maddened with pain and his own desire to win Boston bites savagely at Duane, but catches Hartman’s trousers at the knee and nearly tears them off of the jockey. Cornelius pulls him loose, lifts his head, straightens him and again the cruel rawhide tastes his blood. Responding to the lash with unfaltering courage, with the shouts of “Duane,” “Duane,” “Duane wins!” ringing in his ears, the great horse with almost human instinct seems to know that the supreme moment has come, as he puts forth the last vital ounce of strength that yet lingers in his powerful muscles and begins to draw up on Duane. Each weary leap brings him nearer and nearer the head of the gallant brown, whose last rush at the head of the stretch is now beginning to tell upon him. Only fifty feet from the wire and they are nose and nose. Horses and riders were rolling from side to side, all utterly exhausted. Still, with outstretched necks, distended nostrils and eyes yet flaming with passion, the fierce contest goes on as they literally stagger towards the finish, for the pace is now nothing more than a hard gallop. Cornelius is reeling from exhaustion in his saddle, but with a last effort he partially lifts the drooping head of Boston, cuts him with the whip and—the race is over! Boston wins! But so dead tired are both horses that Boston, although the winner, actually stopped directly under the wire, and Duane walked under it.

Fortune has been kind to me since then and given me many of her most choice blessings, but never in her most liberal moods has she given me anything that I appreciated more than the smile she gave me that hot day on Beacon Heights nearly sixty years ago, when, watching this greatest of all the great races I have ever seen, she doubled my humble fortune.

The reason so little has ever been said or written about this race is owing to the fact that it was not a match or stake or section race, but simply a purse race of four mile heats, in which two of the most noted horses in America met. I helped to carry Boston home after the race. We went through by land, and so completely exhausted was the horse that he would frequently fall and we would have to assist him to his feet.

With Our Writers

“A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.”

As a rule, traveling salesmen manage to extract and radiate as much joy and mirth as any class of citizens that I know of. But even these genial spirits have their own sorrows.

A drummer was sent by his house, shortly after his marriage, on a long trip to the Pacific coast. Some time after his departure the young wife was seized with appendicitis, was hurried off to a hospital, operated on, and recovered all right. The strain, both mental and financial, had been great, but she was well again. Joe had remitted by check for surgeon’s fee, special nurse, hospital charges, and a few other items amounting to a hundred or so, and his spirits were just beginning to rise again as he worked towards Los Angeles, where mail from home would await him.

The “gang” from the 9:10 train hurried up to the office of the “Link-Schmidt.” The night clerk handed each his quota of these ever-welcome missives.

In the reading room Joe was seen to turn deathly pale. Several at once approached. “What’s matter, old boy?” “Bad news from home?” “Anything out of whack?” and kindred interrogatories were fired at him from all directions.

Some griefs are too poignant for expression. Carefully folding back the first and last parts of a page, Joe exhibited, without comment, only this paragraph of its perfumed surface: “I am not feeling as well, dearest, as when I wrote you at Pasadena. Sallie is coming over to-morrow and we are going to have our kimonos cut out.”

Reader number one passed it down the line. Silence, that was stifling, settled over the group. Then, moved by a common impulse, a solemn procession filed out and lined up before a rosewood counter, in front of which ran a massive gilt rail. “Martini,” “Black and White High Ball,” “Wilson,” “Same.” In the land of the high ball a poet once sang:

“Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn! What dangers thou can make us scorn! Wi’ tu’penny we fear nae evil; Wi’ whiskey straight we’d face the divil.”

It was so in this instance. Joe came to first. “Ain’t that ——” (from the youngest in the bunch). “Say, Joe, the repair bills of you married men must be something fierce.”

“Oh, come on, boys, let’s go to supper.”

H. K. A.

Mr. Wallace Mistaken.

Editor Trotwood’s:

I have read with much interest your history of that remarkable family of pacers. If the Hal family of pacers can’t produce world’s record-breaking trotters, the theory that extreme trotting speed comes from the pacer, or originated from the pacing gait, must go to the wall.

Mr. Wallace was certainly misinformed when he was told that the dam of Vermont Black Hawk was a pacer. I hunted up the man who had charge of her for upwards of eight years, and he assured me that the dam of Vermont Black Hawk was as square gaited a trotter as he ever saw, and that she never paced a step during all the time she was owned in the Twombly family. This man was Mr. Shadrak Seavey, a grandson of Ezekiel Twombly, and men who knew him personally assured me that no man’s reputation for strict veracity was superior to that of Mr. Seavey. Horsemen who knew this mare agreed unanimously with Mr. Seavey in describing her color, size, conformation and gait.

The man who misled Mr. Wallace got on the track of the wrong mare. He was the same man (Allen W. Thompson, of Woodstock, Vt.) who strenuously contended that Vermont Black Hawk was by Paddy, and Ethan Allen 2:25½ was by Adams’ Flying Morgan, in spite of the fact that the stud book of Sherman Morgan showed that the dam of Vermont Black Hawk was mated with him May 14, 1832, and I learned from Mr. Seavey that Black Hawk was foaled about the middle of April, 1833.

The stud service book of Vermont Black Hawk shows that the Holcomb mare, dam of Ethan Allen, was mated with Black Hawk July 9, 1848. It is a matter of history that Ethan Allen was foaled June 18, 1849. These facts were known to Thompson, but because Ethan Allen was bay in color, Thompson was sure there must have been some mistake. He did not succeed in winning Mr. Wallace on that point, but touched a responsive chord when he hit upon the pacing mare as the dam of Vermont Black Hawk.

I read your Monthly Sundays, when, I suppose, I should be at church. If your publication is as great a success financially as in all other respects, you will have a bank account when you reach my age that will enable you to live comfortably the remainder of your days. That such may be the case is my sincere wish.

Pardon me for the length of this epistle. I won’t do it again. Very truly yours,

S. W. PARLIN.

Boston, Mass.

As to Football.

Editor Trotwood’s:

In college and university circles, during the year 1905, one of the vital questions receiving its share of attention was, as some one has aptly phrased it, “Is football to be mended or ended?” This and similar questions open the subject for discussion, in the progress of which a number of very caustic criticisms have been leveled at the game by the presidents of some of our great universities and colleges and members of their respective faculties. The president of Columbia University, the first to abolish the game, recently declared that football as now played is no longer a sport, but a profession, and, like other professions, demands prolonged training, complete absorption of time and thought, and is inconsistent, in practice, at least, with the devotion to work which is the first duty of college and university students. He also calls attention to the “figure” “gate receipts” cuts in the conduct of the game, which, says he, “marks the game as in no small degree a commercial enterprise.” President Wheeler of the University of California, brings his indictment against the promoters of the modern game for “having changed the gridiron into a multiplication table,” and otherwise tampering with it, until to-day “American intercollegiate football has become a spectacle, and not a sport.” The president of the College of the City of New York reviews the evolution of football, and makes a strong plea for a return to the game of earlier times, “when football was rather primitive; few practice hours, few out-of-town games; no training table; no excuse from regular university work, and the boys led a normal student life.” However, whatever may be the opinion of certain scholastic dignitaries, and however incompetent the “rank outsider” may be to judge the game, a reasonable survey of the situation reveals the fact that public opinion, the most powerful factor with which we have to deal, is now concentrating its forces preparatory to “bucking the centre” of the game as played, or, with the “flying wedge” of reform, dash through its lines and destroy the dangerous features of the “mass play.”

That there should be provision for physical culture in the course of every educational institution is, of course, universally conceded, but the question now up for solution is, what character of exercise, or what system of physical development will come nearer meeting the demand for such training. The champions of the great American game answer, “football.” And yet, when we consider the question in the light of all its pros and cons—and, like all other questions, it has its pros and cons—its three sides—i. e., your side, the other side, and the inside—we are led to believe that it specializes athletic sports to such a degree as to exclude the student body from participation in them. The systematic development of the physique was first given a pre-eminent place in the training and discipline of young men by the ancient Greeks, who sought in this way to perpetuate a hardy and vigorous manhood among their people. The origin of the Greek games is mythical, yet we know that they were revived in 776 by the king of Elia and Lycurgus, the Spartan lawgiver, as a means by which intestine commotions might be pacified and a pestilence which at that time plagued the people, stayed. Foot racing, wrestling, leaping, quoit and javelin throwing, and, in time, chariot racing were the chief sports with which they developed the physical manhood of the nation. And in this connection, but a moment’s reflection is required to suggest the benefits derived from such a variety of sports and diversity of exercise. Contrast the sports of the Greek game with the exclusive feature of football as played in the colleges to-day. A college president writes of his institution: “In the ten years from 1892 to 1902, only seventy-five different men made the team as players and substitutes out of four thousand or more different male students during that time in attendance.” But this is an age of “specialists,” therefore we will let that pass, and there yet remains the gravest possible objections to the “mass” game. It cannot be denied with any show of fairness, that its present tendency is to discredit scholarship and put brains at a discount, while it inflates and exaggerates the intrinsic value of beef and bone. The primary object of education is to discipline and develop all the faculties and endowments of heart and head, while the maxim, “a sound mind in a sound body,” is by no means to be despised, and yet the hero of the gridiron, the idol of the college or university, might be a young man of mediocre ability, or with no brains at all, and with less character than brains. Then, again, the exaggerated importance which the average student attaches to the more brutal features of the game creates a false standard of courage and manhood, and demands ferocious tests that are unfair as the price of its vindication. False standards of anything in life are, especially to the young, always perilous, and of nothing is this more than of false conceptions of what constitutes real courage. For instance, it is a notorious fact that in the hour of actual battle soldiers who, in “the piping times of peace,” were renowned fist-fighters and bullies, and generally looked upon as “bold, bad men,” have, when the thunder of cannon and the rattle of musketry broke upon their ears, failed to stand the test of courage, and disgracefully and ignominiously fled, seeking safety in precipitate flight, while other men, supposed to be physical cowards, walked calmly and dutifully, and with unwavering step, on through the storm of grape and shell into the very jaws of death. We are reminded, in this connection, that the “dunghill” fights splendidly with his “natural heels,” but it takes a game cock to stand the test of “steel.” Ought our young men to be educated in an atmosphere in which such base estimates of true courage and manliness must become the very breath of their nostrils? Should a young man of culture, courage, refinement and a high sense of honor be subjected to the humiliation of being accounted a “cad” by his fellow students because he does not happen to aspire to “make good” on the team or approve the game? Such a young man may be a swift runner, a good rider, and a well trained gymnast, but there is no field for his physical development if he does not “make good,” and though he be manly, straightforward and proficient in his work, he has no show with the students with the commonest, vulgarest and most ill-bred youth imaginable, provided that “darling of the gods” happens to weigh enough and have enough of the bulldog and tiger in him. Is it any wonder that the brutality of the game, with all its barbarisms and degrading tendencies, has at last awakened the sleeping giant of public opinion, who now threatens to destroy it? And what complicates the situation more are the revelations that from time to time have been made, fixing the crime of dishonesty and insincerity upon some of the faculties of schools and colleges, who have taken devious and questionable ways and methods to violate their sworn agreements with rival institutions, and persistently play professionals as students. But the foxy methods of such schools and colleges have most naturally tended to disintegrate the student conscience and re-acted upon their faculties so as to do either one of two things—i. e., cause the faculty to forfeit the confidence of the better class of students, or train the student to feel that there is no wrong in dissembling, cheating or lying where the success of the team is at stake, as well as the reputation of their college as a leader in athletic sports.

Such a state of affairs most naturally has aroused the interest of those who are jealous and zealous for the welfare of the colleges and universities and individual students, and the tide of public opinion has gradually been swelling until now it threatens the utter destruction of the game. But will the students themselves come to the rescue and save the game while there is yet time, by agreeing to an honest, clean abolition of the objectionable features of the game? For, in the last analysis of the situation, it is “up to them.”

WALTER B. CAPERS.

Columbia, Tenn.

Southern Lien Laws.

Editor Trotwood’s:

The lien laws of most of the Southern states should be repealed. They have served their purpose, and are no longer needed. They are millstones around the neck of twentieth century progress. To the uninitiated it may be necessary to explain that these laws make it possible to use as collateral for a loan things not yet in existence. It is a mortgage on air, sunshine, rain and prospects. The renter of a small farm goes, say in January, to a village merchant, states how much land he will plant, what he expects the total yield will be and the merchant then agrees to advance him, from time to time, supplies of all kinds—food, clothing, implements, and so on, up to an agreed upon amount. For this amount the merchant takes a lien or mortgage upon the prospective crop.

The cotton crop is not planted until April or May, so that a goodly part of the supplies are consumed before a seed is in the ground.

The wreck and ruin of a four years’ war left little besides the land of the South, and the enactment of these laws was an expedient adopted to meet an emergency. The necessity for them has long since passed, leaving the laws on the statute books. They have not been repealed because politicians are afraid of the poor man’s vote. They lack that independence that would do what is best for him over his protest. That such laws encourage idleness, dependence, thriftlessness and improvidence among those who most need to practice their opposites is well illustrated by the following actual occurrence.

One afternoon last August a friend of mine came upon a white renter sitting on the bank of Saluda river fishing. During the conversation my friend expressed the hope that the long drought might be broken by a shower, whereupon the fisherman replied: “Yes, my melon patch needs hit powerful bad, but I’ve drawed about all I kin git on my cotton patch anyway, and I don’t care whether a drap falls on hit or not.”

H. K. A.

Laurens, S. C.

=TROTWOOD’S MONTHLY= Devoted to Farm, Horse and Home. TROTWOOD PUBLISHING CO., Nashville, Tenn. Office 150 Fourth Ave., North. ─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── =JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE,= =Editor-in-Chief.=

=E. E. SWEETLAND= =Business Manager=

GEO. E. McKENNON President JOHN W. FRY Vice-President EUGENE ANDERSON Treas. WOOTEN MOORE Sec’y. ─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── =TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION=: One Year, $1.00; Single Copy, 10 cents. Advertising Rates on application. ─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── NASHVILLE, TENN., MARCH, 1906. ═══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════

With Trotwood

The great new South—does it not make one proud to read the record on a preceding page.

* * * * *