Right Royal | Page 4

bad third, in the Blowbury Cup
And
second at Tew with Kingston up.
He sulked at Folkestone, he funked
at Speen,
He baulked at the ditch at Hampton Green,
Nick Kingston
thought him a slug and cur,
'You must cut his heart out to make him
stir.'
But his legs are iron; he's fine and fit."
Dick said, "Maybe; but he's got no grit.
With to-day's big field, on a
course like this,
He will 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