Best Australian Racing Stories (22 page)

Monday morning at assembly one of the Brothers held up the paper in front of everyone and said, looking straight at me, ‘This is the devil's work.'

One thing I remember, though, was that the paper was in pristine condition when they found it in my locker and when it was displayed at assembly it was dog-eared all over the place. You could tell they'd been going through it. I said to the bloke next to me, ‘They've had a thumb through it, you know.'

I think they heard me, too. It didn't make any difference—I got the cane and a lecture and all the trimmings. But it didn't stop me trying to get the old ‘Truform'. It got to be a ritual. I'd be sitting up in bed on Friday night doing the form and you'd hear the Brother coming and you'd have to find a quick hiding place for the rag.

Another time I got caught with it and the Brother said, ‘How'd you get that?'

‘I nicked it,' I said.

He was a punter, this Brother, because he said, ‘Best form guide you can get, Keenan.'

‘Better then
Best Bets
, anyway,' I said nervously.

Later on, he used to put my bets on for me. When I had a good thing—I'd only go to him if it was a ‘good thing'—I'd say, ‘Brother, this'll win.'

‘Ah, yes,' he'd say, ‘see me later up in the infirmary.'

I'd go up there and he'd say, ‘What do you want on it, Keenan?'

I'd get my money out and he'd say, ‘How good is it?'

‘Straight from the trainer,' I'd say.

‘One of Bill Murrell's?' he'd ask.

Usually the answer would be in the affirmative.

Despite all my boasting and lying, I didn't really know many trainers at that time. But this Brother would never let me down. If it got beat he'd always produce a ticket and if it won the money would always be there. I'd watch him go down the street on Saturday mornings with my money.

Some of us would go down to the Kilmore TAB on Friday nights and wait until somebody we knew, or thought we could trust, would wander up. ‘Hey, mister,' we'd whisper. ‘Will you have a bet for me, please?'

You'd usually find someone eventually. ‘Hey, mister, can you put ten bucks on such and such for me, please?' Occasionally they'd disappear with your money, but there was nothing you could do about it.

I have mostly fond memories of my years at Assumption, mostly of punting and taking bets and poring over the
Truth
form guide.

A few years down the track I bought my first horse, a mare named Miss Burette. She was bloody terrible, placed just once and at Jerilderie. My second horse was Misneach. Richard Freyer, son of Jack, trained those two.

Then I sent Misneach to Denis Murdoch. Denis had the licence but he and I sort of helped one another out training her. We took her to Tatura one day thinking we could win with her. There were only three people on earth who really thought she could win: Denis, myself and Midge Cooper, who was riding her. She opened up at 12 to 1 and I stepped in to back her and the next minute she was at threes. The price was gone and we couldn't get set with any bookie. It came third and we found out later it had been backed strongly each way.

Then next week we replaced Midge, but he bobbed up in the same race on the odds-on favourite. Well, Misneach had gone out at 8 to 1 and we had Donny Brown riding her, his last ride ever.

The little postman from Yarrawonga was a part owner of Mis-neach with me and this time nobody got the mail. The postman was there with his missus and we all grabbed the 8 to 1. I told them the more they put on, the more they'd get back.

Misneach won by a length and a half going away from the favourite. Donny Brown brought her back and we were all jumping around, talking about going to Melbourne to win races and Donny looked at us and said, ‘Jesus, this is a hack!'

You wouldn't want to know—we gave it two more starts and it got a little bubble on its tendon and the tendon bowed, so I sold her at some sales. It did race again, but never won.

I knew Misneach had a good ‘ticker', and that was borne out many years later.

In 1993 a girl walked up to me at Werribee races and asked me did I ever own a horse named Misneach. I replied, ‘Yes, I did.'

‘Well,' she said, ‘she's 20 years of age and she's been my pony club horse for the past six years.'

I thought it would have gone to the lion's den at the zoo or into a pie somewhere years earlier. It made me feel good, actually, because when you've finished with a horse, you like to feel they end up all right, certainly not as pet food.

The Oil From Old Bill Shane

C.J. Dennis

I got the oil: too right. A cove called Shane.

Yes; ole Bill Shane. You've 'eard of 'im, of course.

Big racin' 'ead. There's no need to explain

The things he don't know about a 'orse.

Good ole Bill Shane. They say he's made a pile

At puntin'. Shrewd! I wis I 'ad 'is brain.

An' does 'e know the game? Well, I should smile.

They can't put nothin' over ole Bill Shane.

Yes; Shane, Bill Shane . . . Aw, listen, lad. Wake up!

Why everybody's 'eard of ole Bill Shane.

They say he made ten thousan' on the Cup

Last year, an' now he's got the oil again.

Wot? Owner? Trainer? Nah! Who 'eeds their guff?

Bill's a big racin' man—a punter. See?

Top dog. I alwiz sez wot's good enough

For ole Bill Shane is good enough for me.

Yes; he gave me the oil. I got it straight—

Well, nearly straight. Of course, I've never spoke

To Bill 'imself direck. I got a mate

Wot knows a bloke wot knows another bloke

Wot's frien's with Shane, an' so—you un'erstand.

Wot? me give you the tip? Aw, take a walk!

Yeh think I'd do a thing so under'and?

Bill Shane would kill me if I was to talk.

Well, listen . . . Now, for gosh sake, keep it dark.

An' don't let no one know it came from Shane.

Keep it strick secret. I would be a nark

To let you chuck yer money down the drain . . .

Wazzat you said? He's scratched? 'Ere! Lemme look!

Scratched! Ain't that noos to knock a man clean out?

I alwiz said this puntin' game was crook . . .

Who? Shane? Aw, I dunno. Some racin' tout.

Mulligan's Mare

A.B. (‘Banjo') Paterson

Oh, Mulligan's bar was the deuce of a place

To drink and to fight, and to gamble and race;

The height of choice spirits from near and from far

Were all concentrated on Mulligan's bar.

There was ‘Jerry the Swell', and the jockey-boy Ned,

‘Dog-bite-me', so called from the shape of his head—

And a man whom the boys, in their musical slang,

Designed as the ‘Gaffer of Mulligan's Gang'.

Now Mulligan's Gang had a racer to show,

A bad 'un to look at, a good 'un to go;

Whenever they backed her you safely might swear

She'd walk in a winner, would Mulligan's mare.

But Mulligan, having some radical views,

Neglected his business and got on the booze;

He took up with runners*—a treacherous troop—

Who gave him away and he ‘fell in the soup'.

And so it turned out on a fine summer day,

A bailiff turned up with a writ of ‘fi. fa.';

He walked to the bar with a manner serene,

‘I levy,' said he, ‘in the name of the Queen.'

Then Mulligan wanted, in spite of the law,

To pay out the bailiff with ‘
one
on the jaw';

He drew out to hit him, but, ere you could wink,

He changed his intentions and stood him a drink.

A great consultation there straightway befell

'Twixt jockey-boy Neddy and Jerry the Swell,

And the man with the head, who remarked ‘Why, you bet!

Dog-bite-me!' said he, ‘but we'll diddle 'em yet.

‘We'll slip out the mare from her stall in a crack,

And put in her place the old broken-down hack;

The hack is so like her, I'm ready to swear

The bailiff will think he has Mulligan's mare.

‘So out with the racer and in with the screw,

We'll show him what Mulligan's talent can do;

And if he gets nasty and dares to say much,

I'll knock him as stiff as my grandmother's crutch.'

Then off to the town went the mare and the lad;

The bailiff came out, never dreamt he was ‘had';

But marched to the stall with a confident air—

‘I levy,' said he, ‘upon Mulligan's mare.'

He never would let her go out of his sight,

He watched her by day and he watched her by night,

For races were coming away in the West

And Mulligan's mare had a chance with the best.

And, thinking to quietly serve his own ends,

He sent off a wire to some bookmaking friends:

‘Get all you can borrow, beg, snavel or snare

And lay the whole lot against Mulligan's mare.'

The races came round, and a crowd on the course

Were laying the mare till they made themselves hoarse,

And Mulligan's party, with ardour intense,

They backed her for pounds and for shillings and pence.

And think of the grief of the bookmaking host

At the sound of the summons to go to the post—

For down to the start with her thoroughbred air

As fit as a fiddle pranced Mulligan's mare!

They started, and off went the boy to the front,

He cleared out at once, and he made it a hunt;

He steadied as rounding the corner they wheeled,

Then gave her her head and she smothered the field.

The race put her owner right clear of his debts,

He landed a fortune in stakes and in bets,

He paid the old bailiff the whole of his pelf,

And gave him a hiding to keep for himself.

So all you bold sportsmen take warning, I pray,

Keep clear of the running, you'll find it don't pay;

For the very best rule that you'll hear in a week—

Is never to bet on a thing that can speak.

And whether you're lucky or whether you lose,

Keep clear of the cards and keep clear of the booze,

And fortune in season will answer your prayer

And send you a flyer like Mulligan's mare.

*The ‘runners' referred to here are professional footracers—like those who compete for the Stawell Gift. The sport was very popular in the 19th century in the bush.

The downfall of Mulligan's

A.B. (‘BANJO') PATERSON

T
HE SPORTING MEN OF
Mulligan's pub and sporting club were an exceedingly knowing lot; in fact, they had obtained the name amongst their neighbours of being a little bit too knowing. They had ‘taken down' the adjoining town in a variety of ways. They were always winning maiden plates with horses which were shrewdly suspected to be old and well-tried performers in disguise.

When the sports of Paddy's Flat unearthed a phenomenal runner in the shape of a blackfellow called Frying-pan Joe, the Mulligan contingent immediately took the trouble to discover a blackfel-low of their own, and they made a match and won all the Paddy's Flat money with ridiculous ease; then their blackfellow turned out to be a well-known Sydney performer. They had a man who could fight, a man who could be backed to jump 5 feet 10, a man who could kill eight pigeons out of nine at 30 yards, a man who could make a break of 50 or so at billiards if he tried; they could all drink, and they all had that indefinite look of infinite wisdom and conscious superiority which belongs only to those who know something about horseflesh.

They knew a great many things never learnt at Sunday school. They were experts at cards and dice. They would go to immense trouble to work off any small swindle in the sporting line. In short the general consensus of opinion was that they were a very ‘fly' crowd at Mulligan's, and if you went there you wanted to ‘keep your eyes skinned' or they'd ‘have' you over a threepenny-bit.

There were races at Sydney one Christmas, and a select band of the Mulligan sportsmen were going down to them. They were in high feather, having just won a lot of money from a young Englishman at pigeon shooting, by the simple method of slipping blank cartridges into his gun when he wasn't looking and then backing the bird.

They intended to make a fortune out of the Sydney people, and admirers who came to see them off only asked them as a favour to leave money enough in Sydney to make it worth while for another detachment to go down later on. Just as the train was departing a priest came running on to the platform, and was bundled into the carriage where our Mulligan friends were; the door was slammed to, and away they went. His Reverence was hot and perspiring, and for a few minutes mopped himself with a handkerchief, while the silence was unbroken except by the rattle of the train.

After a while one of the Mulligan fraternity got out a pack of cards and proposed a game to while away the time. There was a young squatter in the carriage who looked as if he might be induced to lose a few pounds, and the sportsmen thought they would be neglecting their opportunities if they did not try to ‘get a bit to go on with' from him. He agreed to play, and, just as a matter of courtesy, they asked the priest whether he would take a hand.

‘What game d'ye play?' he asked, in a melodious brogue.

They explained that any game was equally acceptable to them, but they thought it right to add that they generally played for money.

‘Sure an' it don't matter for wanst in a way,' said he. ‘Oi'll take a hand bedad—Oi'm only going about 50 miles, so Oi can't lose a fortune.'

They lifted a light portmanteau on to their knees to make a table, and five of them—three of the Mulligan crowd and the two strangers—started to have a little game of poker. Things looked rosy for the Mulligan boys, who chuckled as they thought how soon they were making a beginning, and what a magnificent yarn they would have to tell about how they rooked a priest on the way down.