The Pleasures of Ignorance | Page 6

Not that racing men have much time to spare for thoughts about social
problems, even when these are related to a horse. Theirs is a busy life.
They enjoy little of the leisure that falls to the lot of statesmen and
haberdashers.
Their anxieties are a serial story continued from one edition of the day's
papers to another Nor does the last edition of the evening paper make
an end of their anxieties. It is not an epilogue to one day so much as a
prologue to the next. The programme of races for the following day

suggests more problems than the Peace Conference itself could settle in
a month. The racing man, having studied the names of the horses
entered, goes out to buy some tobacco. As he takes his change from the
tobacconist, he asks: "Have you heard anything for to-morrow?" The
tobacconist says: "I heard Green Cloak for the first race," The racing
man nods. "You didn't hear anything for the big race?" he asks. "No.
Somebody was saying Holy Saint." "I heard Oily Hair," says the racing
man gravely. "Good-night." And he goes out. His brow becomes
knitted with thought as he moves off along the pavement. He tells
himself that Holy Saint certainly does offer difficulties. Holy Saint is a
notoriously bad starter. If he could be trusted to get away, he would be
one of the finest horses of his year in long-distance races. But he is
continually being left at the post. To back him would be pure gambling.
He could win if he liked, but would he like? On the whole, Oily Hair is
a safer horse to back. He has already beaten Holy Saint in the Chiswick
Cup, and only lost the Scotch Plate to Disaster by a neck. As the racing
man allows his memory to dwell on the achievements of Oily Hair his
confidence rises. "I see nothing to beat him," he says to himself. He has
just decided to put "a fiver" on him when he meets an acquaintance,
who suggests a drink. As they drink, the talk turns on horses. "What are
you backing in the big race to-morrow?" "Have you heard anything?"
"I heard Oily Hair." "I think not. I'll tell you why. Tommy Fitzgibbon's
youngest sister is at school with two sisters of Willie Soames, who's
going to ride Peace on Earth to-morrow, and one of them told her that
Willie had written to her to put every halfpenny she has on Peace on
Earth." "I'm sick, sore and tired of backing Peace on Earth. He's a
cantankerous beast that seems to take a positive pleasure in losing
races." "Well, remember what I told you...."
On arriving home our sportsman goes to his shelves and takes down the
last annual volume of M'Call's Racing Chronicle and Pocket Turf
Calendar, and looks up Peace on Earth in the index. He turns up the
record of one race after another, and finds that the horse has a better
past than he had remembered. He cannot make up his mind what to do.
He looks over several weekly papers to see if any of them can throw
light on his difficulties. Each of them names a different winner for the
big race. When he puts on his pyjamas that night, all he knows is that

he has decided to decide nothing till the next day.
Next day he once more reads the names of the horses entered for the
various races, and glances down the list of winners selected by the
racing prophet in the morning paper. Having breakfasted late, he finds
he has only about an hour to waste before catching a train for the races,
and he resolves to pay a call at the "Bird of Paradise," where a friend of
his who has an unusual gift for picking up information is usually to be
found about noon. He learns from the landlord that his friend has been
in and gone away, but the landlord tells him that he hears Pudding is a
certainty.
"Have you any reason for thinking so?"
"Well, there was a man in here who has a son a policeman close by
Jobson's stables, and he tells me that everybody in the neighbourhood
has been backing Pudding down to their last spoon. That looks as if
word had been passed round that it was going to win." The racing man
passes out and looks in at the "Pink Elephant" to see if his friend is
there. He is seated at a little table in an upstairs parlour with four others,
all drinking whisky and exchanging tips. They belong to the most
credulous race of men alive. They are all believers in what is called
information, and information is simply the betting man's name for