Right Royal | Page 4

come to grief with that funk of his.?Well. It's queer, to me, that they've brought him on.?It's Kubbadar's race. Good morning, John."
When Dick had gone from the stable-yard,?John wrote a note on a racing card.?He said, "Since Stewart has placed the com.,?It's Mr. Cothill he got it from.?Now why should that nice young man go blind?And back his horse? Has he lost his mind??Such a nice young fellow, so civil-spoken,?Should have more sense than to get him broken,?For broken he'll be as sure as eggs?If he puts his money on horses' legs.?And to trust to this, who's a nice old thing,?But can no more win than a cow can sing.
Well, they say that wisdom is dearly bought,?A world of pain for a want of thought;?But why should he back what stands no chance,?No more than the Rowley Mile's in France??Why didn't he talk of it first with me?
Well, Lord, we trainers can let it be,?Why can't these owners abstain the same??It can't be aught but a losing game.?He'll finish ninth; he'll be forced to sell?His horse, his stud, and his home as well;?He'll lose his lady, and all for this?A daft belief in that horse of his.
It's nothing to me, a man might say,?That a rich young fool should be cast away,?Though what he does with his own, in fine,?Is certainly no concern of mine.?I'm paid to see that his horse is fit,?I can't engage for an owner's wit.?For the heart of a man may love his brother,?But who can be wise to save another??Souls are our own to save from burning,?We must all learn how, and pay for learning.
And now, by the clock, that bell that went?Was the Saddling Bell for the first event.
Since the time comes close, it will save some swearing?If we get beforehand, and start preparing."
The roads were filled with a drifting crowd,?Many mouth-organs droned aloud,?A couple of lads in scarlet hats,?Yellow trousers and purple spats,?Dragged their banjos, wearily eyeing?Passing brakes full of sportsmen Hi-ing.
Then with a long horn blowing a glory?Came the four-in-hand of the young Lord Tory,?The young Lord's eyes on his leader's ears?And the blood-like team going by to cheers.?Then in a brake came cheerers and hooters?Peppering folk from tin peashooters;?The Green Man's Friendly in bright mauve caps?Followed fast in the Green Man's traps,?The crowd made way for the traps to pass?Then a drum beat up with a blare of brass,?Medical students smart as paint?Sang gay songs of a sad complaint.
A wolf-eyed man who carried a kipe?Whistled as shrill as a man could pipe,?Then paused and grinned with his gaps of teeth?Crying "Here's your colours for Compton Heath,?All the colours of all the starters,?For gentlemen's ties and ladies' garters;?Here you have them, penny a pin,?Buy your colours and see them win.?Here you have them, the favourites' own,?Sir Lopez' colours, the blue-white-roan,?For all the races and what'll win 'em?Real jockey's silk with a pin to pin 'em."
Out of his kipe he sold to many?Bright silk buttons and charged a penny.
A bookie walked with his clerk beside him,?His stool on his shoulders seemed to ride him,?His white top-hat bore a sign which ran?"Your old pal Bunkie the working man."?His clothes were a check of three-inch squares,?"Bright brown and fawn with the pearls in pairs,"?Double pearl buttons ran down the side,?The knees were tight and the ankles wide,?A bright, thick chain made of discs of tin?Secured a board from his waist to chin.
The men in the brakes that passed at trot?Read "First past Post" and "Run or Not."?The bookie's face was an angry red,?His eyes seemed rolling inside his head.?His clerk was a lean man, secret, spare,?With thin lips knowing and damp black hair.?A big black bag much weathered with rain?Hung round his neck by a leathered chain.
Seven linked dancers singing a song?Bowed and kicked as they danced along,?The middleman thrust and pulled and squeezed?A concertina to tunes that pleased.?After them, honking, with Hey, Hey, Hey,?Came drivers thrusting to clear the way,?Drivers vexed by the concertina,?Saying "Go bury that d----d hyena."?Drivers dusty with wind-red faces?Leaning out of their driving-places.?The dancers mocked them and called them names:?"Look at our butler," "Drive on, James."?The cars drove past and the dust rose after,?Little boys chased them yelling with laughter,?Clambering on them when they slowed?For a dirty ride down a perch of road.?A dark green car with a smart drab lining?Passed with a stately pair reclining;?Peering walkers standing aside?Saw Soyland's owner pass with his bride,?Young Sir Eustace, biting his lip,?Pressing his chin with his finger-tip,?Nerves on edge, as he could not choose,?From thought of the bets he stood to lose.?His lady, a beauty whom thought made pale,?Prayed from fear that the horse might fail.?A bright brass rod on the motor's bonnet?Carried her husband's colours on it,?Scarlet spots on a field of cream:?She stared ahead in a kind of dream.
Then came