Best Australian Racing Stories (23 page)

Nothing sensational resulted from the first few deals, and the priest began to ask questions.

‘Be ye going to the races?'

They said they were.

‘Ah! and Oi suppose ye'll be betting wid thim bookmakers on the horses, will yez? They do be terrible knowing men, thim bookmakers, they tell me. I wouldn't bet much if Oi was ye,' he said, with an affable smile. ‘If ye go bettin' ye will be took in wid thim bookmakers.'

The boys listened with a bored air and reckoned that by the time they parted the priest would have learnt that they were well able to look after themselves. They went steadily on with the game, and the priest and the young squatter won slightly; this was part of the plan to lead them on to plunge. They neared the station where the priest was to get out. He had won rather more than they liked, so the signal was passed round to ‘put the cross on'. Poker is a game at which a man need not risk much unless he feels inclined, and on this deal the priest stood out. Consequently, when they drew up at his station he was still a few pounds in.

‘Bedad,' he said, ‘Oi don't loike goin' away wid yer money. Oi'll go on to the next station so as ye can have revinge.' Then he sat down again, and play went on in earnest.

The man of religion seemed to have the Devil's own luck. When he was dealt a good hand he invariably backed it well, and if he had a bad one he would not risk anything. The sports grew painfully anxious as they saw him getting further and further ahead of them, prattling away all the time like a big schoolboy. The squatter was the biggest loser so far, but the priest was the only winner. All the others were out of pocket. His reverence played with great dash, and seemed to know a lot about the game, so that on arrival at the second station he was a good round sum in pocket.

He rose to leave them with many expressions of regret, and laughingly promised full revenge next time. Just as he was opening the carriage door, one of the Mulligan fraternity said in a stage whisper: ‘He's a blanky sink-pocket. If he can come this far, let him come on to Sydney and play for double the stakes.' Like a shot the priest turned on him.

‘Bedad, an' if that's yer talk, Oi'll play ye fer double stakes from here to the other side of glory. Do yez think men are mice because they eat cheese? It isn't one of the Ryans would be fearing to give any man his revinge!'

He snorted defiance at them, grabbed his cards and waded in. The others felt that a crisis was at hand and settled down to play in a dead silence. But the priest kept on winning steadily, and the ‘old man' of the Mulligan push saw that something decisive must be done, and decided on a big plunge to get all the money back on one hand. By a dexterous manipulation of the cards he dealt himself four kings, almost the best hand at poker. Then he began with assumed hesitation to bet on his hand, raising the stake little by little.

‘Sure ye're trying to bluff, so ye are!' said the priest, and immediately raised it.

The others had dropped out of the game and watched with painful interest the stake grow and grow. The Mulligan fraternity felt a cheerful certainty that the ‘old man' had made things safe, and regarded themselves as mercifully delivered from an unpleasant situation.

The priest went on doggedly raising the stake in response to his antagonist's challenges until it had attained huge dimensions.

‘Sure that's high enough,' said he, putting into the pool sufficient to entitle him to see his opponent's hand.

The ‘old man' with great gravity laid down his four kings, whereat the Mulligan boys let a big sigh of relief escape them.

Then the priest laid down four aces and scooped the pool.

The sportsmen of Mulligan's never quite knew how they got out to Randwick. They borrowed a bit of money in Sydney, and found themselves in the saddling paddock in a half-dazed condition, trying to realise what had happened to them. During the afternoon they were up at the end of the lawn near the Leger stand and could hear the babel of tongues, small bookmakers, thimble riggers, confidence men, and so on, plying their trades outside. In the tumult of voices they heard one that sounded familiar. Soon suspicion grew into certainty, and they knew that it was the voice of ‘Father' Ryan. They walked to the fence and looked over. This is what he was saying: ‘Pop it down, gents! Pop it down! If you don't put down a brick you can't pick up a castle! I'll bet no one here can pick the knave of hearts out of these three cards. I'll bet half-a-sovereign no one here can find the knave!'

Then the crowd parted a little, and through the opening they could see him distinctly, doing a great business and showing wonderful dexterity with the pasteboard.

There is still enough money in Sydney to make it worth while for another detachment to come down from Mulligan's; but the next lot will hesitate about playing poker with priests in the train.

Our New Horse

A.B. (‘Banjo') Paterson

The boys had come back from the races

All silent and down on their luck;

They'd backed 'em, straight out and for places,

But never a winner they struck.

They lost their good money on Slogan,

And fell, most uncommonly flat,

When Partner, the pride of the Bogan,

Was beaten by Aristocrat.

And one said, ‘I move that instanter

We sell out our horses and quit,

The brutes ought to win in a canter,

Such trials they do when they're fit.

The last one they ran was a snorter—

A gallop to gladden one's heart—

Two-twelve for a mile and a quarter,

And finished as straight as a dart.

‘And then when I think that they're ready

To win me a nice little swag,

They are licked like the veriest neddy—

They're licked from the fall of the flag.

The mare held her own to the stable,

She died out to nothing at that,

And Partner he never seemed able

To pace it with Aristocrat.

‘And times have been bad, and the seasons

Don't promise to be of the best;

In short, boys, there's plenty of reasons

For giving the racing a rest.

The mare can be kept on the station—

Her breeding is good as can be—

But Partner, his next destination

Is rather a trouble to me.

‘We can't sell him here, for they know him

As well as the clerk of the course;

He's raced and won races till, blow him,

He's done as a handicap horse.

A jady, uncertain performer,

They weight him right out of the hunt,

And clap it on warmer and warmer

Whenever he gets near the front.

‘It's no use to paint him or dot him

Or put any “fake” on his brand,

For bushmen are smart, and they'd spot him

In any sale-yard in the land.

The folk about here could all tell him,

Could swear to each separate hair;

Let us send him to Sydney and sell him,

There's plenty of Jugginses there.

‘We'll call him a maiden, and treat 'em

To trials that will open their eyes,

We'll run their best horses and beat 'em,

And then won't they think him a prize.

I pity the fellow that buys him,

He'll find in a very short space,

No matter how highly he tries him,

The beggar won't
race
in a race.'

*

Next week, under ‘Seller and Buyer',

Appeared in the
Daily Gazette
:

‘A racehorse for sale, and a flyer;

Has never been started as yet;

A trial will show what his pace is;

The buyer can get him in light,

And win all the handicap races.

Apply here before Wednesday night.'

He sold for a hundred and thirty,

Because of a gallop he had

One morning with Bluefish and Bertie,

And donkey-licked both of 'em bad.

And when the old horse had departed,

The life on the station grew tame;

The race-track was dull and deserted,

The boys had gone back on the game.

*

The winter rolled by, and the station

Was green with the garland of spring,

A spirit of glad exultation

Awoke in each animate thing.

And all the old love, the old longing,

Broke out in the breasts of the boys,

The visions of racing came thronging

With all its delirious joys.

The rushing of floods in their courses,

The rattle of rain on the roofs

Recalled the fierce rush of the horses,

The thunder of galloping hoofs.

And soon one broke out: ‘I can suffer

No longer the life of a slug,

The man that don't race is a duffer,

Let's have one more run for the mug.

‘Why, everything races, no matter

Whatever its method may be:

The waterfowl hold a regatta;

The 'possums run heats up a tree;

The emus are constantly sprinting

A handicap out on the plain;

It seems like all nature was hinting,

'Tis time to be at it again.

‘The cockatoo parrots are talking

Of races to far away lands;

The native companions are walking

A go-as-you-please on the sands;

The little foals gallop for pastime;

The wallabies race down the gap;

Let's try it once more for the last time,

Bring out the old jacket and cap.

‘And now for a horse; we might try one

Of those that are bred on the place,

But I think it better to buy one,

A horse that has proved he can race.

Let us send down to Sydney to Skinner,

A thorough good judge who can ride,

And ask him to buy us a spinner

To clean out the whole countryside.'

They wrote him a letter as follows:

‘We want you to buy us a horse;

He must have the speed to catch swallows,

And stamina with it of course.

The price ain't a thing that'll grieve us,

It's getting a bad 'un annoys

The undersigned blokes, and believe us,

We're yours to a cinder, “the boys”.'

He answered: ‘I've bought you a hummer,

A horse that has never been raced;

I saw him run over the Drummer,

He held him outclassed and outpaced.

His breeding's not known, but they state he

Is born of a thoroughbred strain,

I paid them a hundred and eighty,

And started the horse in the train.'

They met him—alas, that these verses

Aren't up to the subject's demands—

Can't set forth their eloquent curses,

For Partner was back on their hands
.

They went in to meet him in gladness,

They opened his box with delight—

A silent procession of sadness

They crept to the station at night.

And life has grown dull on the station,

The boys are all silent and slow;

Their work is a daily vexation,

And sport is unknown to them now.

Whenever they think how they stranded,

They squeal just like guinea-pigs squeal;

They bit their own hook, and were landed

With fifty pounds loss on the deal.

My racing problems
No. 2
:
The fatted napes

C.J. DENNIS

T
HOSE THOUGHTFUL PEOPLE,
to whom the matter is of interest, will remember that, on a recent day, I submitted to my friend, Percy Podgrass, the well-known scientific dilettante, a rather baffling racing problem upon which I had stumbled almost by accident. Since its publication, I learn, the matter has aroused intense interest amongst those more highly cultured members of the sporting fraternity to whom abstract questions are far more exciting than any sordid consideration of concrete gain acquired by wagering on sporting events.

The number of such people may not be large, but their enthusiasm is flattering.

My problem, it will be remembered, is, or rather was, this: ‘Why is it that a large proportion of chronic racecourse gamblers, of a certain type, have abnormally fat necks while the residue of their number have napes abnormally thin?'

Percy has now been concentrating on the problem for some 48 hours—allowing time off for sleep, meals, snacks, spots, golf, bridge, face massage and so forth. Today, he came to me with shining eyes and what I believe to be, not only a feasible, but a highly ingenious and probable solution.

Its announcement will, I make bold to say, create a worldwide sensation among biologists, zoologists, psychologists and other apologists for the existence of humanity wherever it is discussed.

And this is what my pal Percy propounds:

Certain animals (he explains), inured by their environment or habitat (nice word) to alternating periods of plenty and poverty, have been, after aeons of patient evolution, equipped by wise Nature with a remarkable gift. This is the ability to store, in convenient portions of their bodies, during periods of plenty, a certain fatty substance of high nutritive value. Upon this substance they are later able to draw when a sudden scarcity of their natural sustenance forces them, as it were, to go on the dole.

It is Percy's considered opinion that the chronic gamblers in question have now definitely joined the ranks of these mammals, so highly favoured by Nature. The fat-naped ones (he declares) are those at present at or near a peak of prosperity. Those with dwindling necks are enduring the temporary privations of a ‘tough spin' or a ‘rotten trot' because of a too sanguine predilection for ‘hairy goats'.

Further (as Percy points out), by staggering or alternating these periods, all-wise Nature saves these too acquisitive punters from themselves. For, if they had their own passionate desire, and the heyday of prosperity were unwisely prolonged, their necks would explode.