The Pleasures of Ignorance | Page 7

gossip. The friend is speaking in a low but excited voice to his
companions, who crouch over towards him in order to catch
information not meant for the rest of the room. He tells how he had just
been in to buy a paper at his newsagent's, and how his newsagent had
been calling on his solicitor that morning, and the solicitor told him that
the caller who had just left as he came in was Gordon, the owner of
Cutandrun, and Gordon said that Cutandrun was the biggest thing that
had ever come into his hands. The buzz-buzz of talk in the smoke-filled
room and the clatter of passing carts makes it difficult to hear him, but
the others lean over the table with red, intent faces, like men among
whom an apostle has come. They do not stay long over their drinks, as
they have not much time for social pleasures. They swallow their
whisky with a quick gesture look at their watches, stand up hurriedly
and part with handshakes.

Then comes a drive to the railway station where race-cards are being
sold. The racing-man buys a "card" and several papers. He looks down
the lists of the horses again in the train, and tries to make up his mind
whether to take the tobacconist's tip and back Green Cloak for the first
race. He believes greatly in breeding, and by far the best-bred horse in
the race is Liberal, who has three Derby winners in his pedigree. Then
there is Red Rose, who created a sensation a month ago by winning two
races in a day. He decides to do nothing till he sees the horses
themselves. He pays thirty shillings at the turnstile of the race-course
and is admitted to the grand stand. Already one or two bookmakers are
shouting from their stands, and some of them have chalked up on
blackboards the odds they are willing to give in the big race. He looks
at the board and sees that he can get twenties against Cutandrun. A
five-pound note might bring him a hundred pounds. On the other hand,
if Oily Hair was going to win, he wouldn't like to miss it. The
bookmakers are offering fives against it. Holy Saint is hot favourite at
two to one. That alone makes him impatient of it, for he dislikes
backing favourites. He prefers the big risks, with great scoops if he
wins. However, he will make up his mind later. Meanwhile, he will go
to the paddock and have a look at the horses for the first race.
Half-a-dozen horses are already out, and men with numbers on their
arms are walking them round and round in a ring. He consults his card
and sees that No. 7 is Brighton Beauty, and No. 2 (a slender, glossy,
black beast with a white star in his forehead) Green Cloak. Liberal has
not appeared. The numbers of the starters, with the names of the
jockeys, are now being hoisted. He makes a pencil-mark opposite the
name of each starter on his racing-card, and jots down the name of the
jockey. Raff, he sees, is riding Green Cloak. That is in its favour.
When he gets back to the betting-ring, the bookmakers are shouting
hoarsely against each other. Liberal is a very hot favourite. They are
shouting: "I'll take two to one. I'll take two to one. Five to one bar one.
A hundred to eight Green Cloak." He feels almost sure Liberal will win,
but Green Cloak--he wishes he had asked the tobacconist where he got
his information from. Anyhow, half-a-sovereign doesn't matter much.
He goes up to a bookmaker, and says: "Ten shillings Green Cloak."
The bookmaker turns to his clerk and says: "Six pound five to ten

shillings Green Cloak," gives a red-white-and-blue card with his name
and a number on it; the other takes the card, writes on the back of it the
name of the horse and the amount of the bet, and makes for the stand to
see the race. The horses have now come out, and are off one after
another to the starting-post. Green Cloak would be hard to miss
because of his jockey's colours--old gold, scarlet sleeves, and green and
black quartered cap. The bell has hardly rung to announce that the race
has begun when men in the crowd begin to dogmatise about the result.
One man keeps saying: "Green Cloak wins this race. Green Cloak wins
this race." Another says: "Liberal leads." Another says: "No; that's
Jumping Frog." To the unaccustomed eye the horses seem as close to
each other as a swarm of bees. Suddenly, however, a bay horse springs
forward and seems to put a length between itself and the others at every
stride. The people in the