by Jim Haynes
‘That’s okay,’ says the cockie, unperturbed, ‘I’ll have another hundred at twenties.’
The bookie shrugs and writes the ticket.
The five-horse field is despatched by the starter and in a very slowly run race, Blue Peter wins by 2 lengths.
The bookie is stunned, he pays out and says to the cockie, ‘How the hell did you work that out? We only brought the horse up here to run him into some condition! I told you I owned him, and you still knew he could win. What did you know that we didn’t?’
‘Well,’ said the cockie, stuffing the money into his pockets, ‘I knew that I owned the other four runners.’
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 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.
THE GUDGEONS GO TO RANDWICK
LENNIE LOWER
(Adapted from Here’s Luck)
I had a feeling of impendi
ng trouble. As the browsing lamb sees the shadow of the hawk on the grass, so I saw trouble.
Gradually the clock forced itself on me. It ticked at me. Its little hand went around. Every tick was a second nearer the grave; my life was ebbing away, ebbing away—second by second. I was in a very bad state.
There was a loud knock on the door, and my son, Stanley, appeared. At the sight of him my fit of abstraction vanished and my mind resumed business at the same old stand.
‘Well?’ I queried.
‘Daisy just phoned and said she’s going to the races with Maureen and she wants us to come and meet her out there. You’ll have to hurry. I’m almost ready. Don’t bother about a shave. Come on, hurry up.’
‘Races? What races?’
‘Randwick Races. Get a collar on and a coat. I’ll have to get you a hat somewhere. Look lively or we’ll be late.’
He scurried out of the room, and the bedroom door, the front door and the gate slammed almost simultaneously behind him.
I rose to my feet. I didn’t want to go to the races. I just wanted to sit down and think. Besides, I had only about eight pounds and I wasn’t going to be financially butchered to make a holiday for the gimme-girls. I was a respectable married man whose wife had merely left to live with her sister. I sat down again. A loud crashing of doors and gates resounded through the house and Stanley suddenly appeared in the room like a stage demon.
‘Not dressed yet!’ he squeaked breathlessly.
‘I’m not . . .’
‘Here’s a hat of Temple’s I’ve borrowed for you from next door,’ he gasped, and threw it to me.
‘I’m not . . .’
‘Come on. Get on your coat. I’ve phoned for a taxi; it will be here any moment.’
‘I’m not going!’ I shouted.
‘Don’t be silly, Dad. This collar looks clean enough. I found it in the hall. Got your studs?’
‘Listen to me, Stanley. I am not going. Don’t try these tornado tactics on me; I’m not going.’
‘Aw, be yourself, Dad! You’re not working. There’s no money coming in. Daisy knows an absolute cert for today. Opportunity only knocks once. Come on!’
The doorbell rang.
‘That’s the taxi-man!’ he exclaimed. ‘Here, put your coat on.’
I clambered into my coat as he rushed out of the room. He was back in something under a second with my tie and studs.
‘You can put these on in the car,’ he gasped, slamming a hat on my head. He grasped me by the arm, swung me out of the room, out of the front door, out the gate and into the taxi.
‘Randwick!’ he cried. ‘Drive like hell!’ and the car leapt forward.
‘Keep close to that car in front,’ I added, ‘and if it stops, shoot to kill.’
I struggled out of the hat, which was much too small and jammed down on my ears.
‘What are you talking about?’ said Stanley. ‘What car in front?’
‘There’s always a car in front,’ I replied testily. ‘A black closed-in car, and it winds in and out streets until it pulls up at a deserted house and they all get out and carry the unconscious girl into the cellar and we surround the house and capture the Master Mind who turns out to be the butler.’
He stared at me. ‘You’re mad!’ he said.
‘Have it your own way,’ I replied, and proceeded to adjust my collar.
I made no complaint to Stanley for literally dragging me out of the house and throwing me into a taxi. I had been practically abducted—shanghaied; but the thing was done. It was no use objecting. It was all of a piece with my presentiments and I sensed the presence of the finger of fate.
I am a fatalist and believe that what will be, will be; what is, is; and what was, was; and so on through the verbs. I am not alone in my belief; the modern trend of thought is more and more in that direction and I sometimes suspect that even the Railway Commissioners operate their passenger services on the same principle.
Stanley must have been thinking on similar lines. He had been gazing at the taximeter, a thing I never do in a taxi as it takes half the pleasure out of the ride. He seemed to be fascinated by the cold-blooded inexorableness of the thing.
‘You know, Father,’ he said, ‘all life is a gamble.’
‘A highly original remark, my boy,’ I replied, ‘I suppose then that a Randwick race-meeting is the quintessence of life and a royal routine flush would be the peak of existence?’
‘It would be the end of your existence if you were playing at the camp with the boys. Wouldn’t it be funny if we won a thousand pounds today?’
‘Funny! The braw laddies of the Highland Society would laugh their sporrans off. May I inquire the basis of these hopes for fun? How are we to participate in this huge joke?’
‘Don’t try to be sarcastic, Father. It lessens my respect for you.’
‘Your respect for your poor old father is already a minus quantity. It only appears on pay-days. You haven’t answered my question.’
He leaned over and clutched my ear.
‘Daisy had a stone moral,’ he whispered.
‘A stone moral.’
‘Ssh!’
‘What’s a stone moral?’
‘Don’t talk so loud. It’s a certainty. It can’t be beaten. There’s only one horse in it.’
‘Oh, well, in that case,’ I said, leaning back in my corner, ‘it certainly must win.’
‘Of course it’ll win; you can put your undies on it.’
‘Seems rather strange, though,’ I ruminated, ‘having only one horse in the race. Any fool ought to see that it must win.’
‘Arrgh!’
I relapsed into my corner again.
The taximeter, foaming at the mouth, demolished another shilling and gnashed its teeth in anticipation of the next. The tick menace is not confined to our country districts.
‘Who is going to pay this lightning calculator?’ I asked, pointing to it.
‘That’s all right. I’ll see that,’ replied Stanley with a contemptuous flirt of his hand that must have greatly disheartened the meter. ‘It’s only twelve shillings,’ he added.
‘Where did you get it?’ I exclaimed.
‘Temple. Good feller your neighbour. Stung him for a couple.’
‘Great!’ I cried. ‘Serves him damn well right!’ I had begun to dislike Temple and to hear of his lending money to Stanley was sweet music to mine ears. Anything lent to Stanley can be lined up with the Pyramids, the Sphinx, the national debt and such-like time-defying monuments.
‘Leger reserve, sir?’
The driver spoke through the back of his neck after the manner of his kind. The car pulled up and we decanted ourselves onto the pavement. Stanley paid the driver and we walked towards the entrance.
‘Synagogue rules,’ he said. ‘Take yourself in and pay for yourself.’
We clattered through the turnstiles. A horde of racebook sellers detonated in our faces.
‘Book! Book! Book! Bookertherazes! Book, sir?’
I bought two and handed one to Stanley.
‘That squares us,’ I said. ‘You paid for the taxi and I’ve paid for the programmes.’
‘If there’s a harder man than you,’ he said, taking the book, ‘I’ll bet he stands on a pedestal in Hyde Park, wrought in solid bronze.’
‘Where have we to meet Daisy?’ I said coldly.
‘Over by the first stand—there she is!’
I looked as he pointed, and saw Daisy and Maureen with two men, one of whom seemed to be drunk.
‘Who are those men?’ I asked, waving my hand at the same time to Daisy.
‘Dunno,’ he answered in a puzzled voice.
As we drew nearer to them a strange feeling of apprehension stole over me. Their faces left me perturbed. I felt that the only way these men could attain popularity in a civilised community would be for them to become radio announcers, unseen and gravely announcing a glut of onions in the market. Later, when I heard their voices, I was forced to deny them even
this faint hope. We doffed our hats and greeted the ladies.
‘So glad you came,’ said Maureen in an enthusiastic voice. ‘I don’t think you’ve met our friends. Mister Simpson; Mister Gudgeon. Mister Stanley Gudgeon—Mister Slatter—Gudgeons. Mix!’
As we shook hands I made a mental note of Stanley’s perfidy in divulging my name. Smith is good enough for me.
‘Gonna back all the winners?’ asked Mr Slatter pleasantly. Or as pleasantly as he could. He was not the type of man I usually associate with. He was tall and very broad about the shoulders, attired in a silvery-grey suit and a hard hat. His features reminded me of the cliffs at South Head, and his nose, which had evidently been broken at some time, had a disposition to lounge about his face. I pictured him shaving with a hammer and a cold chisel.
‘I hope so, Mr Slatter,’ I replied.
‘Call me Woggo,’ he said, spitting over my shoulder. ‘All the boys call me that. Where’s Dogsbody?’ he added, gazing around.
I concluded that ‘Dogsbody’ was the inebriated Mr Simpson’s trade name and turned to see him a little distance away, leaning on Stanley and breathing very confidentially into his face.
‘Come on, Dosb’dy,’ bawled Woggo. ‘We’re going inter the ring.’
I took Daisy’s arm and moved off towards the betting-ring.
‘Your friend has evidently been looking on the wine when it was red,’ I remarked to her.
‘He’d look on it if it was purple and had frogs in it.’ She squeezed my arm. ‘Glad you came, honey,’ she said.
‘Have you known Mr Slatter long?’ I asked.
‘Woggo? He’s all right. We get the dinkum oil off him. He knows all the jockeys and trainers and everything. He was born in a horse-trough and carried round in a nosebag when he was a child. You don’t want to worry about him.’
‘What does he know for this race?’
She stopped and put her mouth close to my ear. ‘King Rabbit,’ she whispered. ‘He’s an outsider and he’ll be any old price. Put a couple of pounds on for me.’
She kissed me on the ear. She was a just a gimme-girl, but twenty years of life fell from me, and I kicked them out of the way as I walked on.
The frantic clamour of the bookmakers roared around us as we entered the ring. Men and women surged about the stands hurling money away with both hands. Punters pleaded to be allowed to lay odds on the favourite and elbowed each other out of the way in their earnest desire to be robbed.
