by Jim Haynes
But you’d not believe me if I told
Of gallops I did in days of old.
I was first in—ah, well! What’s the good?
It hurts to recall those days
When I drew from men, as a proud horse should,
Nothing but words of praise:
Oh, the waving hats, and the cheering crowd!
How could a horse help being proud?
My owner was just as proud as I;
I was cuddled and petted and praised.
My fame was great and my price was high,
And every year ’twas raised.
Then I strained a sinew in ninety-nine,
And that’s when started my swift decline.
I was turned to grass for a year or so;
Then dragged to an auction sale;
And a country sport gave me a go;
But how could I hope but fail?
‘A crock,’ said he. And I here began
To learn of the ways of cruel man.
A year I spent as a lady’s hack—
I was growing old and spent—
But she said that the riding hurt her back;
So we parted; and I went
For a while—and it nearly broke my heart—
Dragging a greasy butcher’s cart.
Then my stifle went. And I, proud horse,
Son of the nobly born,
The haughty king of a city course,
Knew even a butcher’s scorn!
So down the ladder I quickly ran;
Till I came to be owned by a bottle man.
And my bed was hard and my food was poor,
And my work was harder still
Dragging a cart from door to door—
The slave of Bottle-oh Bill.
Till even he, for a few mean bob,
Sold me into this hateful job.
As I dozed and dreamed in the ranks one day,
Thinking of good days past,
I heard a voice that I knew cry, ‘Hey!
Say, cabby, is this horse fast?’
And he looked at me in a way I know.
’Twas the man I’d loved in the long ago.
’Twas my dear, old master of ninety-nine,
And I waited, fair surprised.
But ne’er by a look and ne’er by sign
Did he show he recognised.
Then I heard his words (’twas my last hard knock):
‘Why don’t you pole-axe the poor old crock?’
And he turned aside to a low-bred mare
That was foaled on some cockie’s farm,
And he drove away. What do I care?
I can come to no more harm.
In a knacker’s yard I am worth at least
Some pence for a hungry lion’s feast.
Randwick trainers circa 1895
NAT GOULD
RANDWICK IS THE HEADQUARTERS of the turf in New South Wales, and I know more of it than any other racing quarter in the Australian colonies.
A quiet, charmingly situated place is the village of Randwick. Built on a rise it commands an extensive view over the racecourse and far away to famous Botany Bay and La Perouse. It also has an outlook over the Centennial Park, and a distant view of the city may be obtained.
Randwick is within easy distance of Sydney, about 4 miles or a shade more from the General Post Office, and the trams run there at frequent intervals.
On Sunday afternoon the Randwick road to Coogee, a small watering place about 6 miles from Sydney, is a sight worth seeing. Hundreds of vehicles of all kinds are out, many of them sulkies with fast trotters in the shafts.
These sulkies are driven at a great pace, and there is a desire on the part of each driver to get in front and head the procession. A spill or two is not much thought of, and a buggy or sulky minus a wheel merely excites derision.
Nothing is more delightful than to pay a visit to some well-appointed racing stable at Randwick and, after inspecting the horses, to have a quiet chat with the trainer in his comfortable house.
Trainers, as a rule, are reserved men, but once you get them started on a favourite topic they are good company and have a large fund of anecdotes and reminiscences to draw on.
One of the principal racing stables is that resided over by Mr Thomas Payten at Newmarket, lower Randwick. These stables were built by the Hon. James White and, in years gone by, Mr White as owner, Mr M. Fennelly as trainer and Tom Hales as jockey, were a formidable trio in Australian racing.
When Mr Fennelly died, Tom Payten took command of the Newmarket horses, and a worthy successor he proved to be.
The success of the famous ‘blue and white’ on the turf was wonderful; and the stable won almost every race of importance. How many derbies have been won by horses trained here I am afraid to say; but when I first landed in the colonies the AJC and VRC Derby were regarded as standing dishes for one of Mr White’s horses. Backers looked forward with confidence to having a plunge on Mr White’s Derby colt, and, as a rule, they had occasion to rejoice after the race.
Every classic race of importance fell to the share of Mr White’s horses, and the run of successes in these races is phenomenal, but the spell was broken when Mr White decided upon selling the greater number of his horses in training.
Chester was the founder of White’s stud, and he was a wonderfully good horse, and Martini-Henri also got some fair stock. Chester, however, must have been Mr White’s favourite, and no horse better deserved that honour.
Since Mr White’s death Tom Payten has been in sole charge at Newmarket, although the ownership of the horses has changed. Mrs White still keeps up the breeding establishment at Kirkham, and has imported a couple of well-bred English stallions to take the place of the defunct Chester.
Newmarket stables are built on a large space of ground at Lower Randwick. The trainer’s residence is a fine, commodious house, and stands well back from the road in spacious grounds.
The stables are well built, and there is ample room in them. Entering a large covered building, the visitor finds himself in a spacious hall, as it were, at the far end of which are arranged large loose boxes, and above them a wide gallery goes round three sides of the building.
All these boxes are kept in beautiful order, and are airy, and light, and well drained. Everything is neat and clean, as a racing stable should be, and the numerous lads are kept well in hand and are taught their business, and also, what is quite as necessary, obedience.
Tom Payten rules over all with a firm hand, and at the same time, is a just master. Many a happy hour have I passed in these famous stables with the trainer, and have heard him descant with pride upon the various horses as they were led out of their boxes for my inspection.
Some wonderfully good animals have tenanted these boxes. Here I have seen Abercorn, Dreadnought, Cranbrook, Camoola, Carlyon, Titan, Trieste, Autonomy, Stromboli, Prelude, Trident and a host of others of which I am reminded. Thousands of pounds have been spent upon Newmarket, and the money has not been thrown away.
Lower down the road, on the opposite side, stands an unpretentious but cosy-looking house, and at the rear a glimpse can be caught of an extensive range of stables.
This is the abode of Mr John Allsopp, a trainer who has rapidly come to the front during the past ten years. Mr Allsopp is a very different man from Mr Payten, and he has very few equals as a trainer. His stables are built on three sides of a square, with a spacious yard in the centre, and every accommodation for hay and corn, and the various articles of diet racehorses require.
All the boxes at the stable were built on the trainer’s own design, and they reflect great credit upon him. Many a good horse has John Allsopp shown me in these boxes. A more devoted man to his work than Allsopp I have never met. He revels in it; and morning, noon and night he can be found on the spot looking after his charges. In great measure I think the secret of his success lies in his constant attention to the horses under his charge.
For a thing to be well done
there is nothing like doing it yourself, and Mr Allsopp evidently knows this, and acts accordingly.
The last time I paid him a visit, Paris, now in England, was an inmate of his stables. Paris is about one of the best gallopers I ever saw, and he has won no end of big races with a couple of Caulfield Cups falling to his share.
Cremorne, Trenchant, Sundial, Atlas and others were in the comfortable boxes. One of the best horses Allsopp has had in my time was Gibraltar, and it was most unfortunate when he broke down in Melbourne.
In the dining room at Mr Allsopp’s are portraits in oils of most of the good horses he has trained, and he is not a believer in the superstition that after a horse’s picture has been painted he never wins a race.
Leaving Mr Allsopp’s and crossing the road we come to the stables occupied by Mr H. Raynor, a trainer of the old school.
Harry Raynor’s face is familiar at all principal race meetings. He has not what may be called a charming countenance, nor is he much of a ladykiller, but he knows his business thoroughly. He generally appears in the paddock on race days in a slouch hat, and almost invariably carries an umbrella. He looks more like an old bush hand than one of the best trainers at Randwick.
Many a good thing has Harry Raynor been on during his time. He trained for the late Mr W. Gannon up to the time of his death. Mr Gannon was well known as the host of Petty’s Hotel in Sydney and at one time acted as starter for the AJC.
Some curious yarns are told about Mr Gannon and his trainer, and one in particular tickled me immensely. It shows how the biter was bitten, in this case with a vengeance.
Mr Gannon owned a horse called Arsenal, a good animal, and Harry Raynor trained it. The horse was much fancied by his owner for the Melbourne Cup and Mr Gannon determined to be in the market in time to get the cream of the betting. He accordingly instructed a well-known betting commissioner at that time to take the long odds to a considerable amount for him.
Instead of doing what he ought in fairness to have done, the commissioner let another big backer and horse owner into the secret. The odds were duly accepted, but the long prices returned to, let us call him ‘Mister B’, and the shorter odds to the owner, Mr Gannon. Naturally Mr Gannon was riled at not obtaining a longer price, and he determined to get even with Mister B.
Shortly before the Cup was due to be run, Mr Gannon was staying at Menzies Hotel, in Melbourne. Mister B was also there, and the pair were good friends and often dined together.
One evening at dinner Mr Gannon received a telegram. He opened it leisurely, not deeming it of much importance, and read it.
Its contents apparently had an effect on him, for he gave vent to some expressions more powerful than polite.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Mister B, who was sitting opposite to him, ‘anything wrong with the horse?’
Mr Gannon handed the telegram across the table, and when Mister B glanced at it he, too, became very serious.
The telegram was from Harry Raynor, to the effect that Arsenal and ‘gone wrong’, and it was doubtful if he could start in the Cup.
Mister B thanked Mr Gannon for showing him the telegram, and he intimated his intention of getting rid of the bulk of the money he had taken about the horse, by laying it off. This laying-off business was put into the hands of a commissioner, who commenced operations at once.
As fast as the money was laid off, however, another well-known backer was taking up the wagers in favour of Arsenal. Mister B knew this gentleman, and thinking to warn him against backing a ‘dead un’, he said, ‘It is no business of mine, but are you backing Arsenal for yourself? If so, let someone else have a bit of it. It is my money that is being laid off; the horse has gone wrong.’
‘That’s strange,’ said the backer, who knew nothing of the telegram business.
‘Why?’ asked Mister B, ‘what is strange?’
‘Well, I’m backing it for the owner,’ was the answer that astounded Mister B, who commenced to smell mischief and went to his commissioner and asked him not to lay off any more Arsenal money.
‘I can’t,’ was the laconic reply, ‘I’ve laid it all off already.’
‘And Gannon’s got it!’ was Mister B’s reply.
It was quite true. Mr Gannon had paid the backer in his own coin, and no doubt he chuckled to himself on the success of the telegram.
As a matter of fact, Arsenal did go off his feed before the Melbourne Cup he won, and his clever trainer had an unthankful task in getting him to the post all right.
A day’s racing
A.B. (‘BANJO’) PATERSON
WE HAVE COME TO the point where the reader, having followed us thus far, should have learned the rudiments of the noble art of horse-racing. Let us suppose that he finds himself on a racecourse, glasses on shoulder, racebook in his hand, a determined look in his eye and brain waves of information flying about like wireless messages all round him. How is he to start operations? To what shall he apply? Shall he ‘follow the money’? Shall he follow a tip? Dare he trust his own judgement? Shall he follow the fortunes of a crude jockey? Truly it is the most hopeless and at the same time fascinating problem that confronts him.
Now is the time to put to the test all that he knows. The programme begins with a maiden race for horses that have never won more than 50 pounds. There are a dozen starters and an unsettled sort of market. The ring are calling one horse as favourite, but possibly it is a favourite that they themselves have appointed to the position, and the alleged money which has made the animal favourite may not be stable money at all.
The ‘knowledge boxes’ seem to be standing about with a bored air, waiting developments. And now is the time of the bold backer to take a pull at himself to stop and think to concentrate all his talents on the problem before he wastes a shilling.
A maiden plate is always a bad race to bet on. Any old horses that are in the race must of necessity be pretty bad or they would never have reached that age without having won £50. A four- or five-year-old horse that has done any considerable amount of racing and has never managed to land a stake worth £50 is pretty certain to be in the ‘latter dead class’. If there are any young untried horses in the race, they may possibly be some good. But the bulk of them are bound to be pretty bad, and of all bad things, a bad horse is about the worst possible to be connected with. So the punter must approach this class of race with much misgiving and should certainly bet light if he bets at all. Still, we go to the racecourse to bet, so here goes to pick the winner of the maiden plate.
First of all let us apply the money test. Is there any horse, whose stable have thought it worthwhile to get a good jockey for him and to back him in earnest with their hard-earned money? Let us see what information on this point the ‘knowledge boxes’ can give us. Here comes Ike Pickum. He has a small billet somewhere in the city but he attends half the race meetings in the kingdom, wears a diamond pin, bets all the time, and seems to be always better dressed and to have more ready money than most men who work hard and draw double his salary. Ike’s opinion ought to be worth having, being a goodhearted fellow as most turf followers are, he will not mind giving us any information that won’t interfere with his own plans.
‘What are they taking in this, Ike?’
‘Well, the ring have Forlorn Hope the favourite at threes but I don’t see any of the right people taking it. It may be only the public that are backing him. Better wait a while.’
So far, not much good. Now, if we can, let us get a glance over a bookmaker’s shoulder at his book—not a very dignified proceeding, perhaps, but when you are in Rome you must try to do as the Romans—so we sidle up behind a gentleman who is calling ‘Three to one on the fee-yuld! Three to one on the fee-yuld!’, as if he were a new phonograph with magnifying mouthpiece and all the latest attachments. Let us have a look at his book. Under the heading of Forlorn Hope the entries are fairly thick and about four wagers from the top someone has taken a wager of £200 to £50. Now move on to the next man. In his book also is a wager
of the same amount, entered at about the same place in his book. Hah! This looks like business. Now we begin to think that we are on the track of something, and feel like Sherlock Holmes.
Try another man: a bookmaker in a small way this time, whose motto is, ‘short prices and civility’. He has a wager entered of £60 to £20, about as big a bet as he cares to lay in one book. Now, what has our inspiration told us? It has told us that someone has been round the ring, putting fairly big wagers on this horse, and in all probability the man that put the money on knew something—or thought he did—because the general public does not invest sums of this size on guesswork. It looks more like the work of a stable commissioner. Of course there is no certainty that it is any such thing, but if you want absolute certainty about turf matters, you won’t do much betting. We have at any rate got this far that the horse appears to have been backed by somebody for some real money.
Next comes the question—is the animal’s form good enough to give him a good chance of winning? In the case of these maidens, a horse’s form is not so very great a guide, as the animal has probably been meeting a lot of bad ones like himself and will be found to have run fairly well when the company was worse than usual. When he met any really decent horses, he, as the French say, courut obscurement or, as the Australian translates it, ‘run ’orrible’.
While we’re thinking out what his form is worth, up comes a friendly trainer and he helps us quite a lot. ‘Forlorn Hope,’ he says, looking up into the sky apparently for inspiration. ‘Well, I know they’re backing him, and they’ve got a good man on him. Of course he’s not much good: never was and never will be any relation to a real racehorse: but he’s pretty well just now and these are a terrible bad lot.’
‘Any of the younger horses got a chance?’
‘Well, there’s a colt of old Billy Smith’s here, Tin Tack they call him, did a real good lop last week; but I don’t see my money going in on him. Better stick to the favourite or leave it alone altogether. The others—well, it’s a miracle how they can get past the zoo, while there’s lions to be fed twice a day,’ and with this he sidles off. So now our horse has passed the money test, the form test, the jockey test, and we scurry over to apply the condition test.