I bought a race-card and went in the direction of “the Paddock,” which was a hurdled enclosure outside some farm buildings. Several people nodded to me in a friendly manner, which made me feel more confident, although it puzzled me, for I couldn’t remember that I had seen any of them before. The first race was almost due to start, and the bookmakers were creating a background of excitement with their crescendo shoutings of “Even money the Field” and “Two to one bar one.”
“I’ll lay five to one Monkey Tricks; five to one Monkey Tricks,” announced a villainous-looking man under a vast red umbrella—his hoarse and strident voice taking advantage of a momentary lull in the lung-bursting efforts of the ornaments of his profession on either side of him. “Don’t forget the Old Firm!” he added.
Looking down from above the heads and shoulders of their indecisive clients, the Old Firms appeared to be urging the public to witness some spectacle which was hidden by the boards on which their names were gaudily displayed. The public, however, seemed vaguely mistrustful and the amount of business being done was not equivalent to the hullaballoo which was inciting them to bet their money.
There was a press of people outside the paddock; a bell jangled, and already the upper halves of two or three red- or black-coated riders could be seen settling themselves in their saddles; soon there was a cleavage in the crowd and the eight or ten competitors filed out; their faces, as they swayed past me, varied in expression, from lofty and elaborate unconcern to acute and unconcealed anxiety. But even the least impressive among the cavalcade had an Olympian significance for my gaze, and my heart beat faster in concurrence with their mettlesome emergency, as they disappeared through a gate in the wake of the starter, a burly, jovial-faced man on a stumpy grey cob.
“Having a ride today, sir?” asked a cadaverous blue-chinned individual, who might have been either a groom or a horse-dealer. Rather taken aback by this complimentary inquiry, I replied with a modest negation.
“I see your brother’s riding Colonel Hesmon’s old ’oss in the ’Eavy Weights. He might run well in this deep going,” he continued.
I did not disclaim the enigmatic relationship, and he lowered his voice secretively. “I’m putting a bit on Captain Reynard’s roan for this race! I’ve heard that he’s very hot stuff.” And with a cunning and confidential nod he elbowed his way toward the line of bookmakers, who were now doing a last brisk little turn of business before the destination of the Lightweight Cup was decided over “Three and a half miles of fair hunting country.”
The card informed me that Lieut.-Col. C. M. F. Hesmon’s Jerry was to be ridden by Mr. S. Colwood. “It can’t be Stephen Colwood, can it?” I thought, visualizing a quiet, slender boy with very large hands and feet, who had come to my House at Ballboro’ about two years after I went there. Now I came to think of it his father had been a parson in Sussex, but this did not seem to make it any likelier that he should be riding in a race.
At any rate, I wanted to see this Colwood, for whose brother I had been mistaken, and after the next race I walked boldly into the paddock to see the horses being saddled for the Heavy Weights. There were only five of them, and none of the five looked like going very fast, though all were obviously capable of carrying fourteen stone on their backs. But since one of them had got to come in first, their appearance was creating an amount of interest quite disproportionate to their credentials as racehorses, and their grooms and owners were fussing around them as if they were running in the Grand National.
“I’ve told the boy that if he wins I’ll give him the horse,” exclaimed an active little old gentleman with a straggling grey moustache and a fawn-coloured covert coat with large pearl buttons; his hands were full of flat lead weights, which he kept doling out to an elderly groom, who was inserting them in the leather pouches of a cloth which was to go under the saddle.
“Yes, the old fellow’s looking well, isn’t he?” he went on, dropping another lump of lead into the groom’s outstretched hand. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look fitter than he does today.” He gazed affectionately at the horse, a dark bay with unclipped legs and a short untidily trimmed tail.
People kept on coming up and greeting the affable and excited owner with cordial civility and he made the same remarks to each of them in turn. “Yes, I’ve told the boy that if he wins I’ll give him the horse—are you quite sure those girths are all right, Dumbrell?” (to the groom, who was continuing his preparations with stoical deliberation), “and ’pon my word I’m not at all sure he won’t win—the old fellow’s fit to run for his life—never saw him look better—and I know the boy’ll ride him nicely—most promising boy—capital eye for a country already—one of the keenest young chaps I’ve ever known.”
“Well, Colonel, and how’s the old horse?” ejaculated an exuberant person in a staring check suit and a
