by Jim Haynes
Skelton was a loner and he resisted attempts by the Pony Owners and Trainers Association (POTA) to make him place the corporate interests of his brother trainers before his own, yet by 1923 he had somehow become an unlikely president of the POTA.
He resigned the position after a bitter dispute with other delegates in which they accused him of using POTA membership fees to pay gambling debts. The ARC was inevitably drawn into this argument. The POTA requested that the ARC reject nominations received from outside the POTA membership, a proposal clearly intended to isolate Skelton. The ARC received legal advice that they could not refuse an entry unless the nominee had been found guilty of malpractice or a breach of the ARC rules of racing.
When they advised the POTA of this, the trainers called a strike. The first boycotted meeting happened to include the rich Rosebery Cup. Despite a picket line at the ARC office, Skelton and a handful of other non-POTA trainers were able to make sufficient entries for the meeting to go ahead, although it drew a much smaller attendance than usual.
Skelton won every race except for the Cup. The POTA strike continued at a second meeting at Ascot four days later, but thereafter the resolve of its members faltered and the strike petered out. Several of Skelton’s fellow trainers and the editor of the Sportsman, Sam Mackenzie, believed that for a time after the POTA strike Skelton entries received generous handicaps and other favourable treatment from the ARC.
While enmity towards Skelton, rather than economic or industrial conditions, was the direct cause of the strike, it was nevertheless an expression of class-consciousness and the trainers’ dissatisfaction with the way in which they believed financial surplus generated by unregistered racing was divided.
Despite his frequently reported betting successes, Skelton became insolvent in 1933. This did not end his career, however, and he continued to be one of the best-known faces on Sydney racecourses until the late 1950s.
While he was a student of form, he also sometimes gambled most irrationally, in the manner of what are known as ‘mug’ punters: ‘Bob was so keen to have a bet, when he felt lucky, that, on one occasion, when Rufe Naylor refused to bet him an even thousand on the favourite . . . he offered to bet the bookmaker the same amount to the same odds that the favourite wouldn’t win,’ recalled Joe Andersen.
He also liked to bet on the fluctuating odds during the running of a race, as he, other gamblers and bookmakers gathered in the area reserved for licensed persons in the grandstand.
Baron Bob died almost penniless but had sustained himself in some comfort off the bounty of the racecourse for almost 40 years; a long career denied to most who follow that vocation.
A DISQUALIFIED JOCKEY’S STORY
A.B. ‘BANJO’ PATERSON
You see, the thing was this way—there was me,
That rode Panopply, the Splendor mare,
And Ikey Chambers on the Iron Dook,
And Smith, the half-caste rider on Regret,
And that long bloke from Wagga—him that rode
Veronikew, the Snowy River horse.
Well, none of them had chances—not a chance
Among the lot, unless the rest fell dead
Or wasn’t trying—for a blind man’s dog
Could see Enchantress was a certain cop,
And all the books was layin’ six to four.
They brought her out to show our lot the road,
Or so they said: but, then Gord’s truth! you know,
You can believe ’em, though they took an oath
On forty Bibles that they’s tell the truth.
But anyhow, an amateur was up
On this Enchantress; and so Ike and me,
We thought that we might frighten him a bit
By asking if he minded riding rough—
‘Oh, not at all,’ says he, ‘oh, not at all!
I heard at Robbo Park, and if it comes
To bumping I’m your Moses! Strike me blue!’
Says he, ‘I’ll bump you over either rail,
The inside rail or outside—which you choose
Is good enough for me’—which settled Ike.
For he was shaky since he near got killed
From being sent a buster on the rail,
When some chap bumped his horse and fetched him down
At Stony Bridge; so Ikey thought it best
To leave this bloke alone, and I agreed.
So all the books was layin’ six to four
Against the favourite, and the amateur
Was walking this Enchantress up and down,
And me and Smithy backed him; for we thought
We might as well get something for ourselves,
Because we knew our horses couldn’t win.
But Ikey wouldn’t back him for a bob;
Because he said he reckoned he was stiff,
And all the books was layin’ six to four.
Well, anyhow, before the start the news
Got around that this here amateur was stiff,
And our good stuff was blued, and all the books
Was in it, and the prices lengthened out,
And every book was bustin’ of his throat,
And layin’ five to one the favourite.
So there was we that couldn’t win ourselves,
And this here amateur that wouldn’t try,
And all the books was layin’ five to one.
So Smithy says to me, ‘You take a hold
Of that there moke of yours, and round the turn
Come up behind Enchantress with the whip
And let her have it; that long bloke and me
Will wait ahead, and when she comes to us
We’ll pass her on and belt her down the straight,
And Ikey’ll flog her home—because his boss
Is judge and steward and the Lord knows what,
And so he won’t be touched; and, as for us,
We’ll swear we only hit her by mistake!’
And all the books was layin’ five to one.
Well, off we went, and comin’ to the turn
I saw the amateur was holding back
And poking into every hole he could
To get her blocked; and so I pulled behind
And drew the whip and dropped it on the mare.
I let her have it twice, and then she shot
Ahead of me, and Smithy opened out
And let her up beside him on the rails,
And kept her there a-beltin’ her like smoke
Until she struggled past him, pullin’ hard,
And came to Ike; but Ikey drew his whip
And hit her on the nose, and sent her back
And won the race himself—for, after all,
It seems he had a fiver on The Dook
And never told us—so our stuff was lost.
And then they had us up for ridin’ foul,
And warned us off the tracks for twelve months each
To get our livin’ any way we could;
But Ikey wasn’t touched, because his boss
Was judge and steward and the Lord knows what.
But Mister—if you’ll lend us half-a-crown,
I know three certain winners at the Park—
Three certain cops as no one knows but me;
And—thank you, Mister, come an’ have a beer
(I always like a beer about this time) . . .
Well, so long, Mister, till we meet again.
DONE FOR THE DOUBLE
A.B. ‘BANJO’ PATERSON—WRITING AS ‘KNOTT GOLD’ (AUTHOR OF FLOGGED FOR A FURLONG, WON BY A WINKER , ETC.)
Part 1—Wanted, a Pony
Algernon de Montgomery Smythers was a merchant, wealthy and beyond the dreams of avarice. Other merchants might dress more lavishly, and wear larger watch chains, but the bank balance is the true test of mercantile superiority, and in trial of bank balances Algernon de Montgomery represented Tyson at seven stone. He was unbeatable.
He lived in comfort, not to say
luxury. He had champagne for breakfast every morning and his wife always slept with a pair of diamond earrings worth a small fortune in her ears. It is things like these that show true gentility. All others are shoddy.
Though they had been married many years, the A de M Smythers had but one child—a son and heir. He was brought up in the lap of luxury. No Christmas Day was allowed to pass by his doting parents without a gift to young Algy of some trifle worth about £150, less the discount for cash. He had six playrooms, all filled with the most expensive toys and ingenious mechanical devices. He had a phonograph that could hail a ship out at the South Head, and a mechanical parrot that sang ‘The Wearing of the Green’. And still he was not happy.
Sometimes, in spite of the vigilance of his four nurses and six under-nurses, he would escape into the street, and run about with the little boys that he met there. One day he gave one of them a sovereign for a locust. Certainly the locust was a ‘double-drummer’, and could deafen the German Band when shaken up judiciously; still, it was dear at the price of a sovereign.
It is ever thus.
What we have we do not value, and what other people have we are not strong enough to take from them.
Such is life.
Christmas was approaching, and the question of what should be given to Algy as a present agitated the bosom of his parents. He had nearly everything a child would want, but one morning a bright inspiration struck Algy’s father. Algy should have a pony.
With Mr Smythers to think was to act. He was not a man who believed in allowing grass to grow under his feet. His motto was, ‘Up and be doing—somebody’. So he put an advertisement in the paper that same day.
Wanted, a boy’s pony. Must be guaranteed sound, strong, handsome, intelligent. Used to trains, trams, motors, fire engines, and motor buses. Any failure in above respect will disqualify. Certificate of birth required as well as references from last place, when calling. Price no object.
Part 2—Blinky Bill’s Sacrifice
Down in the poverty-stricken portions of the city lived Blinky Bill the horse dealer. His yard was surrounded by loose boxes made of any old timber, galvanised iron, sheets of roofing felt, and bark that he could gather together. He kept all sorts of horses, except good sorts. There were harness horses that wouldn’t pull, and saddle horses that wouldn’t go—or, if they went used to fall down; nearly every animal about the place had something the matter with it.
He kept racing ponies, and when the bailiff dropped in, for the rent, as he did every two or three weeks, Bill and the bailiff would go out together, and ‘have a punt’ on some of Bill’s ponies, or on somebody else’s ponies—the latter for choice. But the periodical punts and occasional sales of horses would not keep the wolf from the door. Ponies keep on eating whether they are winning or not and Blinky Bill had got down to the very last pitch of desperation when he saw the advertisement mentioned at the end of the last chapter.
It was like a ray of hope to him. At once there flashed upon him what he must do. He must make a great sacrifice; he must sell Sausage II. What, the reader might ask, was Sausage II? Alas, that such a great notability should be anywhere unknown!
Sausage II was the greatest thirteen-two pony of the day. Time and again he had gone out to race when, to use William’s own words, it was a blue duck for Bill’s chance of keeping afloat unless the pony won; and every time did the gallant race pony pull his owner through. Bill owed more to Sausage II than he owed to any of his creditors.
Brought up as a pet, the little animal was absolutely trustworthy. He would carry a lady or a child, or pull a sulky; in fact, it was quite a common thing for Blinky Bill to drive him in a sulky to a country meeting and look about him for a likely ‘mark’; if he could find a fleet youth with a reputedly fast pony, Bill would offer to ‘pull the little cuddy out of the sulky and run yer for a fiver.’ Sometimes he got beaten but, as he never paid, that didn’t matter. He did not believe in fighting, except under desperate circumstances, but he would always sooner fight than pay.
But all these devices had left him on his uppers in the end. He had no feed for his ponies, and no money to buy feed; the corn merchant had written his account off as bad, and had no desire to make it worse. Under the circumstances, what was he to do? Sausage II must be sold.
With heavy heart Bill led the pony down to be inspected. He saw Algernon de Montgomery Smythers and measured him with his eye. He saw it would be no use to talk about racing to him, so he went on the other tack.
He told him that the pony belonged to a Methodist clergyman, who used to drive him in a ‘shay’. There are no shays in this country; but Bill had read the word somewhere, and thought it sounded respectable. ‘Yus, sir,’ he said, ‘’e goes lovely in a shay,’ and he was just starting off at twenty words a second, when he was stopped.
Mr A de M Smythers was brusque with his inferiors, and in this he made a mistake. Instead of listening to all that Blinky Bill said, and disbelieving it at his leisure, he stopped his talk. ‘If you want to sell this pony, dry up,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe a word you say, and it only worries me to hear you lying.’
Fatal mistake! You should never stop a horse dealer’s talk. And call him anything you like, but never say you doubt his word.
Both these things, Mr Smythers did; and though he bought the pony at a high price, yet the insult sank deep into the heart of Blinky Bill.
As the capitalist departed leading the pony, Blinky Bill muttered to himself, ‘Ha! Ha! Little does he know that he is leading Sausage II, the greatest thirteen-two pony of the century. Let him beware how he gets alongside anything. That’s all! Blinky Bill may yet be revenged!’
We shall see.
Part 3—Exit Algy
Christmas Day came. Algy’s father gave orders to have the pony saddled, and led round to the front door. Algy’s mother, a lady of forty summers, spent the morning superintending the dinner. Dinner was the principal event in the day with her. Alas, poor lady! Everything she ate agreed with her, and she got fatter and fatter and fatter.
The cold world never fully appreciates struggles of those who are fat—the efforts at starvation, the detested exercise, the long, miserable walks. Well has one of our greatest poets written, ‘Take up the fat man’s burden’. But we digress.
When Algy saw the pony he shouted with delight, and in half a minute was riding him up and down the front drive. Then he asked for leave to go out in the street, and that was where the trouble began.
Up and down the street the pony cantered, as quietly as possible, till suddenly round a corner came two butcher boys racing their horses. With a clatter of clumsy hoofs they thundered past. In half a second there was a rattle, and a sort of comet-like rush through the air. Sausage II was off after them with his precious burden.
The family dog tried to keep up with him, and succeeded in keeping ahead for about three strides. Then, like the wolves that pursued Mazeppa, he was left yelping far behind.
Through Surry Hills and Redfern swept the flying pony, his rider lying out on his neck in Tod Sloan fashion, while the ground seemed to race beneath him. The events of the way were just one hopeless blur till the pony ran straight as an arrow into the yard of his owner, Blinky Bill.
Part 4—Running the Rule
As soon as Blinky Bill recognised his visitor, he was delighted. ‘You here,’ he said, ‘Ha, ha, revenge is mine! I’ll get a tidy reward for taking you back, my young shaver.’ Then from the unresisting child he took a gold watch and three sovereigns, which he had in his pocket. These he said he would put in a safe place for him, till he was going home again. He expected to get at least a tenner ready money for bringing the child back, and hoped that he might be allowed to keep the watch into the bargain. With a light heart he went down town with Algy’s watch and sovereigns in his pocket. He did not return till daylight, when he awoke his wife with bad news.
‘Can’t give the boy up,’ he said. ‘I moskenoed his block and tackle, and blued it in the school,’ mea
ning that he had pawned the boy’s watch and chain, and had lost the proceeds at pitch and toss. ‘Nothing for it but to move,’ he said, ‘and take the kid with us.’
So move they did.
The reader can imagine with what frantic anxiety the father and mother of little Algy sought for their lost one. They put the matter into the hands of the detective police, and waited for the Sherlock Holmeses of the force to get in their fine work. They heard nothing.
Years rolled on, and the mysterious disappearance of little Algy was never solved. The horse dealer’s revenge was complete. The boy’s mother consulted a clairvoyant, who said, ‘What went by the ponies, will come by the ponies,’ and with that they had to remain satisfied.
Part 5—The Tricks of the Turf
It was race day at Pulling’em Park, and the ponies were doing their usual performances. Among the throng the heaviest punter is a fat lady with diamond earrings. Does the reader recognise her? It is little Algy’s mother. Her husband is dead, leaving her the whole of his colossal fortune, and, having developed a taste for gambling, she is now engaged in ‘doing in on the ponies’. She is one of the biggest betters in the game.
When women take to betting they are worse than men.
But it is not for betting alone that she attends the meetings. She remembers the clairvoyant’s ‘What went by the ponies will come by the ponies.’ And always she searches in the ranks of the talent for her lost Algy.
Here comes another of our dramatis personae—Blinky Bill, prosperous once more. He got a string of ponies and punters together. The first are not much use to a man without the second; but, in spite of all temptations, Bill has always declined to number among his punters the mother of the child he stole. But the poor lady regularly punts on his ponies, and just as regularly is ‘sent up’—in other words, loses her money.
Today she has backed Blinky’s pair, Nostrils and Tin Can, for the double. Nostrils has won his race, and Tin Can, if on the job, can win the second half of the double. Is he on the job? The prices are lengthening against him, and the poor lady recognises that once more she is ‘in the cart’.