He scuttled to where he could see them going down—seventeen. No need to search for his colours; they blazed, like George Pulcher’s countenance, or a rhododendron bush in sunlight, above that bright chestnut with the white nose, curvetting a little as she was led past.
Now they came cantering—Deerstalker in the lead.
“He’s a hell of a horse, Deerstalker!” said someone behind.
‘Jimmy’ cast a nervous glance around. No sign of George Pulcher!
One by one they cantered past, and he watched them with a cold feeling in his stomach. Still unused to sight of the creatures out of which he made his living, theyallseemed to him hells of horses!
The same voice said:
“New colours! Well, you can see ’em, and the mare too. She’s a showy one. Calliope? She’s goin’ back in the bettin’, though.”
‘Jimmy’ moved up through the Ring.
“Four to one on the field!” “Six Deerstalker!” “Sevens Magistrate!” “Ten to one Wasp!” “Ten to one Calliope!” “Four to one Diamond Stud—Four to one on the field!”
Steady as a rock, that horse of Jenning, and his own going back!
“Twelves Calliope!” he heard, just as he reached the stand. The telepathic genius of the Ring missed nothing—almost!
A cold shiver went through him. What had he done by his words to Docker? Spoiled the golden egg laid so carefully? But perhaps she couldn’t win even if they let her! He began to mount the stand, his mind in the most acute confusion.
A voice said: “Hullo, Jimmy! Is she going to win?”
One of his young Oxford sparks was jammed against him on the stairway!
He raised his lip in a sort of snarl, and, huddling himself, slipped through and up ahead. He came out and edged in close to the stairs where he could get play for his glasses. Behind him one of those who improve the shining hour among backers cut off from opportunity was intoning the odds a point shorter than below. “Three to one on the field!” “Fives Deerstalker!” “Eight to one Wasp!”
“What price Calliope?” said ‘Jimmy’ sharply.
“Hundred to eight.”
“Done!” Handing him the eight, he took the ticket. Behind him the man’s eyes moved fishily, and he resumed his incantation.
“Three to one on the field!... Three to one on the field! Six to one Magistrate!”
On the wheeling bunch of colours at the start ‘Jimmy’ trained his glasses. Something had broken clean away and come half the course—something in yellow.
“Eights Magistrate. Nine to one Magistrate,” drifted up.
So they had spotted that! Precious little they didn’t spot!
Magistrate was round again, and being ridden back. ‘Jimmy’ rested his glasses a moment, and looked down. Swarms in the Cheap Ring, Tattersalls, the stands—a crowd so great you could lose George Pulcher in it. Just below a little manwas making silent, frantic signals with his arms to someone across in the Cheap Ring. ‘Jimmy’ raised his glasses. In line now—magenta third from the rails!
“They’re off!” The hush, you could cut it with a knife! Something in green away on the right—Wasp! What a bat they were going! And a sort of numbness in ‘Jimmy’s’ mind cracked suddenly; his glasses shook; his thin, weasley face became suffused and quivered. Magenta—magenta—two from the rails! He could make no story of the race such as he would read in to-morrow’s paper—he could see nothing but magenta.
Out of the dip now, and coming fast—green still leading—something in violet, something in tartan, closing.
“Wasp’s beat!” “The favourite—the favourite wins!” “Deerstalker—Deerstalker wins! What’s that in pink on the rails?”
It washisin pink on the rails! Behind him a man went suddenly mad.
“Deerstalker! Come on with ’im, Stee! Deerstalker’ll win—Deerstalker’ll win!”
‘Jimmy’ sputtered venomously: “Will ’e? Will ’e?”
Deerstalker and his own out from the rest—opposite the Cheap Ring—neck and neck—Docker riding like a demon.
“Deerstalker! Deerstalker!” “Calliope wins! She wins!”
Gawd! His horse! They flashed past—fifty yards to go, and not a head between ’em!
“Deerstalker! Deerstalker!” “Calliope!”
He saw his mare shoot out—she’d won!
With a little queer sound he squirmed and wriggled on to the stairs. No thoughts while he squeezed, and slid, and hurried—only emotion—out of the Ring, away to the paddock. His horse!
Docker had weighed in when he reached the mare. All right! He passed with a grin. ‘Jimmy’ turned almost into the body of Polman standing like an image.
“Well, Mr. Shrewin,” he said to nobody, “she’s won.”
‘Damn you!’ thought ‘Jimmy.’ ‘Damn the lot of you!’ And he went up to his mare. Quivering, streaked with sweat, impatient of the gathering crowd, she showed the whites of her eyes when he put his hand up to her nose.
“Good girl!” he said, and watched her led away.
‘Gawd! I want a drink!’ he thought.
Gingerly, keeping a sharp lookout for Pulcher, he returned to the stand to get it, and to draw his hundred. But up there by the stairs the discreetfellow was no more. On the ticket was the name O. H. Jones, and nothing else. ‘Jimmy’ Shrewin had been welshed! He went down at last in a bad temper. At the bottom of the staircase stood George Pulcher. The big man’s face was crimson, his eyes ominous. He blocked ‘Jimmy’ into a corner.
“Ah!” he said. “You little crow! What the ’ell made you speak to Docker?”
‘Jimmy’ grinned. Some new body within him stood there defiant. “She’s my ’orse,” he said.
“You —— Gawd-forsaken rat! If I ’ad you in a quiet spot, I’d shake the life out of you!”
‘Jimmy’ stared up, his little spindle legs apart, like a cock-sparrow confronting an offended pigeon.
“Go ’ome,” he said, “George Pulcher; and get your mother to mend your socks. You don’t know ’ow! Thought I wasn’t a man, did you? Well, now you —— well know I am. Keep off my ’orse in future.”
Crimson rushed up on crimson in Pulcher’s face; he raised his heavy fists. ‘Jimmy’ stood, unmoving, his little hands in his bell-coat pockets, his withered face upraised. The big man gulped as if swallowing back the tide of blood; his fists edged forward and then—dropped.
“That’s better,” said ‘Jimmy,’ “hit one of your own size.”
Emitting a deep growl, George Pulcher walked away.
“Two to one on the field—I’ll back the field—Two to one on the field.” “Threes Snowdrift—Fours Iron Dook.”
‘Jimmy’ stood a moment mechanically listening to the music of his life; then, edging out, he took a fly and was driven to the station.
All the way up to town he sat chewing his cheroot with the glow of drink inside him, thinking of that finish, and of how he had stood up to George Pulcher. For a whole day he was lost in London, but Friday saw him once more at his seat of custom in the ‘Corn.’ Not having laid against his horse, he had had a good race in spite of everything; yet, the following week, uncertain into what further quagmires of quixotry she might lead him, he sold Calliope.
But for years betting upon horses that he never saw, underground like a rat, yet never again so accessible to the kicks of fortune, or so prone before the shafts of superiority, he would think of the Downs with the blinkin’ larks singin’, and talk of how once he—had a horse.
1923.