MY FIRST DERBY
“No,” I said, “as a matter of fact I’ve never been to the Derby—and to tell you the truth——” I went on.
He winced. He did not want me to tell him the truth. If the truth was (as it was) that I didn’t care two cassowary’s eggs whether I went to the Derby or not, that was the very last thing he desired to hear. He wanted to keep his opinion of me as unimpaired by such idiosyncrasies, as I would permit. These thoughts rippled over the mild surface of his features like gusts of wind across the waters of a pond. I allowed the words to die away in my throat. After all, to give pain flagrantly—
“Promise me,” he urged, “p-p-promise me you’ll take a day off and go to-morrow. It’s one of the sights of the world. The Downs black with people——”
“Black?” I murmured, “surely not in this heat?”
“Oh, well, covered with people then, stiff with people, crowded for miles and miles with millions and millions of all classes in the land——”
“Dear, dear,” I said, “first, second,andthird!”
He ignored this miserable attempt at buffoonery.
“Yes,” he averred, “all classes in the land, thimble-rigging, cocoanut shying, confidence tricking, eating, drinking, laughing, cheering. Vehicles of all sorts, shapes, sizes, motive power, blocking all the roads in the neighbourhood. And the horses, my dear boy, the horses! Until you’ve seen those horses, trained to a hair, with coats like satin, ready to run for their lives, why, you simply haven’t seen anything. And the crowd in the paddock. Youmustsee the crowd in the paddock.Andthe bookies. No man’s lived, till he’s been done down on the Downs. Now promise me faithfully——”
“Very well,” I said hurriedly to forestall the otherwise inevitable repetition, “I promise....”
It was rather fun, I admit. From the moment when the wheel-barrow on which, apparently, I had made the journey in the company of a Zulu chief, Lady Diana Manners, Mr. Justice Salter, and a dear little Eskimo girl aged seven, drew up at Boulter’s Lock—no, no—not Boulter’s Lock—Tattenham Corner, I knew I was in for one of the great days of my life. There, glittering in the sunlight in all its pristine colouring, stood the brand-new Tattenham Corner House, erected for the occasion by Sir Joseph Lyons himself, who, with Lord Howard de Walden on one side of him and the Prime Minister on the other,stood in the doorway receiving his guests. A prodigious negro, with an unexpectedly small voice, announced me (for some reason) as “Mr. Mallaby Deeley,” and I found myself walking on a vast deep verandah, laid out with innumerable little luncheon tables, through which a long procession of horses was intricately manœuvring.
“The paddock,” murmured my Zulu companion. “It’s an idea of Sir Joseph’s. The combination of a sit-down luncheon and form at a glance. Extraordinarily convenient.”
We sat down at a table. Immediately a jockey and his horse sat down opposite to us.
“Order us a drink each, dearie,” said the jockey, “it’s a fearful business this perambulatin’ about; and you get nothing for it. Eh? Oh, gin for’er, and I’ll take a glass o’ port.”
“And what is your young friend’s name?” enquired the judge, suddenly putting his head from under the table.
“Ah,” said the jockey, knowingly, “that ’ud be telling, that would.” He tapped his nose mysteriously and drank.
“But, my good sir,” complained the judge, “how can I back your horse if I don’t know its name?”
“By the process of elimination,” said the jockey sagely.
“Done down on the Downs.”
“Done down on the Downs.”
“Done down on the Downs.”
“Elimination,” said the judge, “what of?”
“Yourself,” said the jockey; and his mount choked coyly in her glass.
At this moment the King appeared, followed by Aristotle, Sir Thomas Beecham, and others.
“The next race is about to begin,” he said severely, “and you’ve none of you brushed your hair.”
It was a long time before I found the bookmaker. Any number of spurious ones rose up in my path and taunted me; but He always escaped. At last I thought of looking under one of the thimbles; and there he was in deep calculation.
“What price Poltergeist?” I demanded. I wanted to say Psychology, but the word somehow refused to shape itself.
“It all depends,” he replied shrewdly, “on whether you want to buy or to sell,” wherewith he crossed his legs, smiled on only one side of his face, and returned to his calculations.
“Aren’t you a bookmaker?” I faltered.
“Certainly,” he cried shrilly, “and I’m making a book now, can’t you see?” He held up a kind of primitive loose-leaf ledger, made of calico pages bound in sheepskin.
“Very durable,” he explained, and broke into a harsh chant:
“If I lay sevens and foursAnd you take fives and threes—What do they care for gaming laws,Who have not felt the squeeze,Who sacrifice the world’s applauseAnd gain ignoble ease?With odds laid off or on,And prices up or down——”
“If I lay sevens and foursAnd you take fives and threes—What do they care for gaming laws,Who have not felt the squeeze,Who sacrifice the world’s applauseAnd gain ignoble ease?With odds laid off or on,And prices up or down——”
“If I lay sevens and foursAnd you take fives and threes—What do they care for gaming laws,Who have not felt the squeeze,Who sacrifice the world’s applauseAnd gain ignoble ease?
“If I lay sevens and fours
And you take fives and threes—
What do they care for gaming laws,
Who have not felt the squeeze,
Who sacrifice the world’s applause
And gain ignoble ease?
With odds laid off or on,And prices up or down——”
With odds laid off or on,
And prices up or down——”
He broke off abruptly and rose to his feet. The miscellany in his lap was scattered upon the ground.
“Pick up my work-basket,” he exclaimed, “and give me the kaleidoscope,” I handed him the strange black instrument at which he was pointing, and began groping on my knees among the pins and needles. He turned towards the sun, and gazed at it through the object in his hand.
“Look out,” he exclaimed suddenly, “they’re off.”
Simultaneously a voice near me said, “The King’s calling you,” and I began to run. Immediately the hounds were slipped from the leash, and the hunt settled down in my wake. The ship began to sway from side to side, and the roaring grew louder and louder. Still I ran, flashing past the booths, past upturned umbrellas with cards scattered over them, past the stewards’ enclosure, past the Royal Box. The thunderinggrew louder and more insistent. I was flying along the track with the whole field plunging after me. Hoarse cries. I redouble my efforts. My head is going to burst. The Royal Box whizzes past again. The winning post. I’m falling....
A long time afterwards, a voice said:
“He’s quite all right. A touch of heat-stroke is nothing, really, you know. Quiet. Couple of days in bed.”
I opened my eyes.
“Sir Joseph Lyons——” I began.
“All right,” said the doctor, “you shut up.”
“I’ve promised to go to the Derby,” I protested.
“Next year,” replied the doctor. “Just drink this, will you?”