The Australasian/1936/11/14/The Shearer's Colt

Judging on his appearance and conversation, the Honourable Psalmsey was a most inadequate person in every way; but he had a flair for horses, and, while an undergraduate, had ridden his own horse into a place in the Grand National Steeplechase under an assumed name.

To do this he had to break about half a dozen rules of the university; so that, instead of awarding him the Victoria Cross, or whatever is the equivalent of that distinction at Oxford, they sent him down. We next find him acting as aide-de-camp to his uncle, the Governor of New South Wales. It would be understating the case to say that he was glad to see Fitzroy—he positively bubbled, and became incoherent in speech.

"What ho, Fitz! By Jove! Rippin'! I've got a most frightful job! Positively awful! I have to steer His Excellency about, and see that he doesn't miss recognising all sorts of weird Johnnies he has already met at some show or other. And if we invite the wrong chappies to Government House, why, yours truly gets it in the neck. I wouldn't be secretary to the Prince of Wales for all the tea in China. … But you're all right, Fitz. Your uncle's the head serang in the F.O. What are you doin', Fitz? You must come and have dinner some night with us."

"Well. I was a policeman."

"A policeman! Good gosh! Ain't that too awful! When I do find a decent chap he's a policeman! I couldn't pick a winner in a field of one. But it's my day off, and I know a few things that might do us some good. Come and well get on the trail like bloodhounds."

Thinking that it was about time that he too had a day off, Fitzroy left his employer to the guidance of the representative of the Empire Pastoral Company and melted into the crowd. Then the bell rang for the first race. This was a hurdle race, and as soon as the scratching time had expired the bookmakers got up on their stands and started to roar the odds. Around them frolicked the children of the turf—so wise and important they were too, those children—each with his little bit of information, gleaned, perhaps, from a sporting paper, or a friend who knew the friend of a jockey. In the early betting these neophytes poured in with their pounds and their fivers. One callow sportsman vouchsafed the information to Jim Frazer:

"They're going to put a packet on Simon's horse to-day, Jim, so I got in early."

For this the bookmaker thanked him; then turned to his penciller, an old bushman like himself, with the remark:

"I'm sure Simon'd tell everybody he's going to back his horse. He's that mean he wouldn't give a dog a drink at his mirage."

There was not very much betting on this hurdle race, as few people like to see their money jumping in the air. It was won by a fine old horse who had developed a technique of going full speed over the hurdles, thus gaining a couple of lengths at every jump. This performance impressed Red Fred tremendously. As soon as the winner came in he wanted to buy him; but Charley Stone advised him to wait a bit. as he might see something he liked better.

"A hurdle horse is a good poor man's horse." he said. "He'll keep him poor. You don't want a hurdle horse. Wait till you see some of the cracks."

The hurdle horse had been favourite for his race; then there set in one of those inexplicable runs of favourites which send the frailer bookmakers to the mont-de-plate to pawn their diamond rings. The favourite for the two-year-old race—a beautiful colt belonging to a wealthy non-betting owner—cantered in at even money to the accompaniment of hoarse cheers from Red Fred, who had a tenner on it on Charley Stone's advice.

"That's a bobby-dazzler of a colt," said Fred. "I wonder what he'd want for him."

"No chance in the world," said Charley Stone. "That's a Derby colt, and his owner's got as much money as you have. He has been trying to win a Derby all his life."

Two minor handicaps also went to favourites, and the crowd were on their toes. They had the bookmakers on the run, and who would work for money when he could get it by betting? They almost resented the fact that the fifth race—a mile and a quarter—was a moral certainty for the great four-year-old Sensation, winner of the Sydney and Melbourne Derbies and the Melbourne Cup.

He was one of those colts of the century that occur every ten years or so, and the weight-for-age races were at his mercy. The bookmakers were ready to gamble, but were not prepared to commit financial suicide; so they refused to bet against Sensation. And they laid very cramped odds against anyone picking first and second.

"It's too bad," said Charley Stone. "Here's a horse that's as good a thing as St. Simon in a field of selling-platers, and you can't get a bet on it! It's like holding four aces cold at poker and nobody coming into the pool against you."

Sensation, of whom we shall hear more later on. left his field at the top of the straight and swept past the post with his head in his chest to the accompaniment of a roar of cheering. After all the public do love a good horse. Then it was a case of "To your tents, oh Israel" with the bookmakers. Five favourites in a row, and all were diving into secret pockets under their armpits in search of wads of notes.

Just as betting was about to start on the last race, Red Fred and Charley Stone bumped into Jim Frazer on the way down to his stand.

"Come with me," he said, "and I'll show you some bookmaking. I'm going to pill this favourite. There was never six favourites won in the world. You'll see some betting, too, for the rats have got money now, and that's the time to see betting—when the rats have got it. Talk about your gentlemen punters—it takes a rat to bet. When he has a win he won't put by a fiver of it. Up it goes, all he's got, every time. Secrecy ought to be favourite, and you'll see what I'll do to her. She ought to win—but there never was six favourites won yet." ••••• By the time that he mounted his box the betting was well under way, and the ring were calling three to one the field. Early money came in, and, thinking that it was a pity to pay three to one if the public would take five to two, the price was dropped to that figure. Even at five to two the public were coming along with their money, and then Jim Frazer started. His bull-like voice rang over the tumult:

"Four to one on the field, four to one on the field! Four to one Secrecy! Four to one Secrecy! Four to one on the field!"

Like a wave they came at him. Fierce, flushed faces surrounded him, and thrusting fists tried to push money into his hands. Unable to get near him, the big punters yelled from the back of the crowd, "Two hundred me, Jim," "Three hundred me, Jim," and his penciller worked feverishly as the leviathan called the names:

"Two hundred, Mr. Skinner; three hundred, Mr. Clark; a hundred, Fred. Staples; fifty, George Sharkey; fifty, Harry Smith; twenty, Mr. Sothern. Four to one on the field." A rat elbowed his way through the crowd and shrieked: "You got fifteen of mine, Jim. All up on it!"

"Won't you keep the odd five, Brownie? You might want it. Put a tenner on this."

"No, up with the lot! What's the good of a measly fiver to a man?"

"Right-oh! Fifteen on it, Bullswool Brown. Four to one on the field. Tenner on it number sixty-nine. Fiver on it number seventy. Twenty on it number seventy-one. A quid number seventy-two. Four to one on the field."

By this time the excitement of betting had swept even the bookmaker off his feet, and instead of getting in some money on the other horses he went in deeper and deeper against the favourite. His penciller whispered to him:

"The mare's taking out twelve thousand and we're only holding three thousand."

But his employer's answer was a snort of defiance:

"What do I call what she's taking out? There never was six favourites won! I'm down three thousand on the day, and I want to hold four thousand so as to make it a winner. That's why I'm laying four to one. Come on here, four to one on the field."

"You were laughing at the rats, Jim," said Charley Stone, "and now you're betting like a rat yourself. All or nothing."

"Don't I know it! But you've got to bet like a rat to make a big book. Four to one on the field."

By this time Red Fred had had a few drinks, and was beginning to think that his opinion was at least as good as anybody else's. Seeing a fine-looking old horse going to the post, he turned to Jim Frazer and said:

"Here, Jim, what price Peacemaker?"

"Peacemaker! Spare me days! You don't want to back him. He's been out for a spell, and he's not half ready."

"That's all right, Jim, that's all right. I know what I'm doin'. What price Peacemaker?"

"Well, if you will have it, 50 to 1 to you. What do you want on it? Ten bob?"

Rocking slightly on his feet Red Fred gathered himself together with great dignity and handed over a £20 note.

"That's what I'll (hiccup) have on it," he said. "I've heard too much of this ten-bob talk. Too much of it. Just 'cause you got money you think everybody else is a porpoise [pauper]. A thousand to (hic) twenny. Gimme me ticket."

"Right. Here's your ticket. Don't come to me to borrow money if you get broke. Of all the fools …"

Those who know most about racing will agree that a horse will sometimes run his best race when fresh and full of life. Old Peacemaker, a good performer in his day, and naturally a clean-winded horse, went into his job like a Trojan. His apprentice rider, like many other apprentices, went into a sort of trance as soon as the barrier lifted. But the old horse knew his business. Jumping out clear of his field, he made for the rails, and in spite of the barbaric finish of his rider, he just lasted long enough to beat the favourite by a head. Instead of coming out with a profit of a thousand, Jim Frazer had had all his day's work and his huge risk for a loss of a couple of hundred pounds.

When Red Fred came to be paid, he presented his ticket without saying a word. He struck an attitude and waited for the applause which had been all too rare in his life. Instead, he got advice of which he had always had too much. It seemed to him that everybody looked upon him as a sort of natural advice-taker, and it was time to resent it.

As the bookmaker paid him over the money he said:

"Well, Fred, a fool for luck. I don't know why you picked on me, but if anybody had to take me down for a thousand it might as well be you. Now listen. Don't come at that game again—backing fifty-to-one shots. If you back favourites you'll have no laces on your boots, but if you back outsiders you'll have no boots."

"That's all right," said Red Fred. "That's all right. If ever I want yer to buy me a pair of (hic) boots I'll come and ask yer."

After the day's racing the party split up, Fitzroy being carried off by the Honourable Psalmsey to the aide's quarters at Government House. He dared not ask him to dine at Government House itself, lest the other guests should be offended at being asked to sit down with an ex-policeman.

Charley Stone, who looked upon the guardianship of Red Fred as a full-time job, carried that hero off to have dinner at a sporting night club. He suggested that the tedium of the meal might be mitigated by the presence of a couple of ladies, whose attendance would be procured and paid for by the entertainment fund of the Empire Pastoral Company, but Red Fred said that he was tired, and that they could invite the ladies at another time.

"Charley," said he, "that colt Sensation. Do you think a man could buy him?"

No dingo on the scent of a wallaby is keener than the commission man on the scent of a sale. But there is a technique in these things, and the first principle of salesmanship is not to appear too eager.

"Sensation," said Charley Stone, wrinkling his brow with the air of a man facing a chess problem, "Sensation. Now you're asking me something. He might be bought. And there's only one man in Australia could buy him. That's Charley Stone, of the Empire Pastoral Company. That colt belongs to a client of ours, a man who was up to his neck in the soup, and Sensation pulled him out of it. He's won twenty thousand pounds in stakes, that horse; and he's the best we've seen in Australia this century.

"But he might sell him; I say he might, though I doubt it. The horse is up in the weights now, and the right thing to do with him is for someone to take him to England. They don't think much of our horses over there; they don't think much of anybody's horses except their own; and you might give 'em the shock of a lifetime. It'd be no good talking anything less than ten thousand pounds—better say twelve thousand. Even at that you'd be lucky to get him. I'll just have a word with his owner, and feel his pulse a bit. He might sell. You never know."

Next morning Charley Stone reported to the great panjandrum of the Empire Pastoral Company, Mr. Frost by name—a grey-faced old gentleman, with gimlet eyes—and gave an account of his stewardship.

"I've been shepherding Mr. Carstairs," he said. "Had him to the races. Had him to dinner. Saw him to bed at the pub, and I'd have slept in front of his door if they'd have let me. Do you know what? He wants to buy that horse of Mr. Magee's. If we can make the sale, we'll get a commission on ten or twelve thousand pounds, and I thought you might consider it wise for Mr. Magee to sell him.

The brains of these great financiers work like lightning, and the Empire Pastoral chief weighed up the affair in a second.

"Wise to sell him!" he said. "Of course he'd be wise to sell him! It's wise to sell any horse. Sell and repent, but sell. Mr. Magee has made twenty thousand out of him, and it only needs the horse to put his foot in a hole and that's the end of him. Mr. Magee has been buying a lot of sheep on the strength of the money this horse won, and he's got bills for six thousand coming due next month. You put it to Mr. Magee any way you like, so long as you—er—hum—ha—convey it to him that he's got to sell, and sell quickly before this man changes his mind."

"The horse is worth ten thousand …" Stone began.

"No horse is worth ten thousand. There's six million people in Australia and only one buyer. Don't lose him. Get it settled to-day. Racehorses, Mr. Stone, are the curse of Australia, and I hope that in the course of your—er—ha—hum duties as boozehound—I beg your pardon, the slang phrase slipped out accidentally—as entertainment officer for this company, you will impress upon our clients the necessity of having nothing to do with racehorses. By the way, what sort of man is Mr. Carstairs? Could one put him for a club?"

"No, sir," replied Charley Stone, feeling that he was on safe ground here. "You'd have to rope him to get him into a club." And then, fearing that he might be detailed for some distasteful job, he picked up his hat and made for the door, remarking, "I must go and get busy about this sale."

Later on in the day, at the Pure Merino Club, Mr. Frost hailed an old crony, just such another dried-up old spoil-sport as himself.

"George," he said, "let's split a small bottle. I've just sold a horse for ten thousand guineas."

"Good God! What horse?"

"Sensation."

"Sensation! You don't own Sensation! I thought Magee owned him."

"No. George, I own him, or rather did own him. When he was a two-year-old we struck a drought and Magee was just going down for the third time, so I gave him a thousand for the horse and saved his life. I always liked the Musket-St. Simon cross. And all the money the horse has won since—I let Magee have it without any interest. He's got a wife and a very fine family. Every time that Magee looked like going under, Sensation would come along with a win of two or three thousand and throw him out the lifeline. He's on his feet now. So the horse can go."

"Why didn't you race him yourself?"

"Bad example to the staff, George. Besides you know what directors are. Well," he went on, holding his glass up to the light and watching the bubbles rise to the surface, "here's a curse on the staff, George, and to blazes with the board of directors. I'm retiring next year; then I'll get a couple of good horses and show them some style." ••••• The next day's papers contained the news that Sensation had been sold for ten thousand guineas to a client of the Empire Pastoral Company, who preferred not to disclose his name. But sales of this sort can no more be kept secret than a sale of the Crown Jewels, if such a thing ever took place.

At the races next day, the paddock hummed with the news that a newcomer had appeared in the turf firmament. He had won a thousand—most of them made it ten thousand—on the first day; he knew more and bet bigger than Clarkey or Skinny, the two champion local punters; he had bought Sensation; and every time our friend went into the ring he had a string of men after him as they would be after an American champion prizefighter.

Under the strain of this publicity his inferiority complex asserted itself more than ever. He confined his wagers to a pound on each race, which satisfied the public that he had a commissioner putting thousands on for him in other parts of the ring. Unknown ladies bowed to him. and urgers tried to make his acquaintance on the ground that they had met him in some country town—but they couldn't exactly remember where it was.

By degrees he got used to it, and at the end of the day he took a childish pleasure in hearing people say as he walked past:

"That's him! That's the bloke that give ten thousand for Sensation!"

Through this turmoil Charley Stone hovered over him, protecting him as the sign of the cross protected the heroine in the play of that name. He told the aspiring ladles to "trot along, Sissie," and he inquired of the urgers what they fancied and then told them that be knew something very much better. He talked so fluently of leading trainers and jockeys that before long he had the urgers coming to him for information, which he gave them in a hoarse whisper, strictly enjoining them not to tell anybody.

At the end of the day Fitzroy reported for duty, accompanied by the aide-de-camp, who said that His Excellency and party would like to go out and see this celebrated racehorse. Whereat terror once more beset the bushman, and he badly wanted to clear off home to the pub. But he was to a certain extent reassured on being told that he could put his hat on after being once introduced, and that he should call His Excellency "Sir" and his wife "My Lady."

The Government House party came through the crowd with their Excellencies looking anxiously to right and left, lest they should miss somebody entitled to recognition. As a precaution, the Governor occasionally lifted his hat and directed a bow into the thickest of the crowd—firing into the brown of them, as it were—and feeling sure that his salutation must light on somebody entitled to it. The two daughters of a local magnate, who acted as Lieutenant-Governor in the absence of the real article, also attached themselves to the party, feeling that they were at any rate semi-vice-regal; and they sparingly distributed bows of such hauteur and frigidity that one woman went home with a chill after receiving this recognition, and another sent a donation of five guineas to the local Bolshevik society.

Red Fred refused to get into a car with their Excellencies, so he and Fitzroy and Stone occupied one car; the aide and the two semi-vice-regal ladies another; and their Excellencies a third. Thus they proceeded to the establishment of Harry Raynham, the trainer of Sensation and a score of other horses of varying ability.