# The Just Men of Cordova/Chapter 12

The Race
The curious ring on the Carholme was crowded. Unusually interested in the Lincoln handicap was the sporting world, and this, together with the glorious weather, had drawn sportsmen from north and south to meet together on this great festival of English racing. Train and steamer had brought the Wanderers back to the fold. There were men with a tan of Egypt on their cheeks, men who had been to the south to avoid the vigorous and searching tests of an English winter; there were men who came from Monte Carlo, and lean, brown men who had spent the dark days of the year amongst the snows of the Alps.
There were regular followers of the game who had known no holiday, and had followed the jumping season with religious attention. There were rich men and comparatively poor men; little tradesmen who found this the most delightful of their holidays; members of Parliament who had snatched a day from the dreariness of the Parliamentary debates; sharpers on the look-out for possible victims; these latter quiet, unobtrusive men whose eyes were constantly on the move for a likely subject. There was a sprinkling of journalists, cheery and sceptical, young men and old men, farmers in their gaiters—all drawn together in one great brotherhood by a love of the sport of kings.
In the crowded paddock the horses engaged in the first race were walking round, led by diminutive stable-lads, the number of each horse strapped to the boy’s arm.
“A rough lot of beggars,” said Gresham, looking them over. Most of them still had their winter coats; most of them were grossly fat and unfitted for racing. He was ticking the horses off on his card; some he immediately dismissed as of no account. He found Lady Mary wandering around the paddock by herself. She greeted him as a shipwrecked mariner greets a sail.
“I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said. “I know nothing whatever about racing.” She looked round the paddock. “Won’t you tell me something. Are all these horses really fit?”
“You evidently know something about horses,” he smiled. “No, they’re not.”
“But surely they can’t win if they’re not fit,” she said in astonishment.
“They can’t all win,” replied the young man, laughing. “They’re not all intended to win, either. You see, a trainer may not be satisfied his horse is top-hole. He sends him out to have a feeler, so to speak, at the opposition. The fittest horse will probably win this race. The trainer who is running against him with no hope of success will discover how near to fitness his own beast is!”
“I want to find Timbolino,” she said, looking at her card. “That’s Sir Isaac’s, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “I was looking for him myself,” he said. “Come along, and let’s see if we can find him.”
In a corner of the paddock they discovered the horse—a tall, upstanding animal, well muscled, so far as Horace could judge, for the horse was still in his cloths.
“A nice type of horse for the Lincoln,” he said thoughtfully. “I saw him at Ascot last year. I think this is the fellow we’ve got to beat.”
“Does Sir Isaac own many horses?” she asked.
“A few,” he said. “He is a remarkable man.”
“Why do you say that?” she asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, one knows… ” Then he realized that it wasn’t playing cricket to speak disparagingly of a possible rival, and she rightly interpreted his silence.
“Where does Sir Isaac make his money?” she asked abruptly.
He looked at her. “I don’t know,” he said. “He’s got some property somewhere, hasn’t he?”
She shook her head. “No,” she said. “I am not asking,” she went on quickly, “because I have any possible interest in his wealth or his prospects. All my interest is centred—elsewhere.” She favoured him with a dazzling little smile.
Although the paddock was crowded and the eyes of many people were upon him, the owner of the favourite had all his work to restrain himself from taking her hand.
She changed the subject abruptly. “So now let’s come and see your great horse,” she said gaily.
He led her over to one of the boxes where Nemesis was receiving the attention of an earnest groom.
There was not much of her. She was of small build, clean of limb, with a beautiful head and a fine neck not usually seen in so small a thoroughbred. She had run a good fourth in the Cambridgeshire of the previous year, and had made steady improvement from her three-year-old to her four-year-old days.
Horace looked her over critically. His practised eye could see no fault in her condition. She looked very cool, ideally fit for the task of the afternoon. He knew that her task was a difficult one; he knew, too, that he had in his heart really very little fear that she could fail to negotiate the easy mile of the Carholme. There were many horses in the race who were also sprinters, and they would make the pace a terrifically fast one. If stamina was a weak point, it would betray her.
The previous day, on the opening of the racing season, his stable had run a horse in a selling plate, and it was encouraging that this animal, though carrying top weight, beat his field easily. It was this fact that had brought Nemesis to the position of short-priced favourite.
Gresham himself had very little money upon her; he did not bet very heavily, though he was credited with making and losing fabulous sums each year. He gained nothing by contradicting these rumours. He was sufficiently indifferent to the opinions of his fellows not to suffer any inconvenience from their repetition.
But the shortening of price on Nemesis was a serious matter for the connection of Timbolino. They could not cover their investments by “saving” on Nemesis without a considerable outlay.
Horace was at lunch when the second race was run. He had found Lord Verlond wonderfully gracious; to the young man’s surprise his lordship had accepted his invitation with such matter-of-fact heartiness as to suggest he had expected it. “I suppose,” he said, with a little twinkle in his eye, “you haven’t invited Ikey?”
Gresham shook his head smilingly. “No, I do not think Sir Isaac quite approves of me.”
“I do not think he does,” agreed the other. “Anyway, he’s got a guest of his own, Colonel Black. I assure you it is through no act of mine. Ikey introduced him to me, somewhat unnecessarily, but Ikey is always doing unnecessary things.”
“A very amiable person,” continued the earl, busy with his knife and fork; “he ‘lordshipped’ me and ‘my lorded’ me as though he were the newest kind of barrister and I was the oldest and wiliest of assize judges. He treated me with that respect which is only accorded to those who are expected to pay eventually for the privilege. Ikey was most anxious that he should create a good impression.”
It may be said with truth that Black saw the net closing round him. He knew not what mysterious influences were at work, but day by day, in a hundred different ways, he found himself thwarted, new obstacles put in his way. He was out now for a final kill.
He was recalled to a realization of the present by the strident voices of the bookmakers about him; the ring was in a turmoil. He heard a voice shout, “Seven to one, bar one! Seven to one Nemesis!” and he knew enough of racing to realize what had happened to the favourite. He came to a bookmaker he knew slightly. “What are you barring?” he asked.
“Timbolino,” was the reply.
He found Sir Isaac near the enclosure. The baronet was looking a muddy white, and was biting his finger-nails with an air of perturbation.
“What has made your horse so strong a favourite?”
“I backed it again,” said Sir Isaac.
“Backed it again?”
“I’ve got to do something,” said the other savagely. “If I lose, well, I lose more than I can pay. I might as well add to my liabilities. I tell you I’m down and out if this thing doesn’t win,” he said, “unless you can do something for me. You can, can’t you, Black, old sport?” he asked entreatingly. “There’s no reason why you and I should have any secrets from one another.”
Black looked at him steadily. If the horse lost he might be able to use this man to greater advantage.
Sir Isaac’s next words suggested that in case of necessity help would be forthcoming. “It’s that beastly Verlond,” he said bitterly. “He put the girl quite against me—she treats me as though I were dirt—and I thought I was all right there. I’ve been backing on the strength of the money coming to me.”
“What has happened recently?” asked Black.
“I got her by myself just now,” said the baronet, “and put it to her plain; but it’s no go. Black, she gave me the frozen face—turned me down proper. It’s perfectly damnable,” he almost wailed.
Black nodded. At that moment there was a sudden stir in the ring. Over the heads of the crowd from where they stood they saw the bright-coloured caps of the jockeys cantering down to the post.
Unlike Sir Isaac, who had carefully avoided the paddock after a casual glance at his candidate, Horace was personally supervising the finishing touches to Nemesis. He saw the girths strapped and gave his last instructions to the jockey. Then, as the filly was led to the course, with one final backward and approving glance at her, he turned towards the ring.
“One moment, Gresham!” Lord Verlond was behind him. “Do you think your horse,” said the old man, with a nod towards Nemesis, “is going to win?”
Horace nodded. “I do now,” he said; “in fact, I am rather confident.”
“Do you think,” the other asked slowly, “that if your horse doesn’t, Timbolino will?”
Horace looked at him curiously. “Yes, Lord Verlond, I do,” he said quietly.
Again there was a pause, the old man fingering his shaven chin absently. “Suppose, Gresham,” he said, without raising his voice, “suppose I asked you to pull your horse?”
The face of the young man went suddenly red. “You’re joking, Lord Verlond,” he answered stiffly.
“I’m not joking,” said the other. “I’m speaking to you as a man of honour, and I am trusting to your respecting my confidence. Suppose I asked you to pull Nemesis, would you do it?”
“No, frankly, I would not,” said the other, “but I can’t—”
“Never mind what you can’t understand,” said Lord Verlond, with a return of his usual sharpness. “If I asked you and offered you as a reward what you desired most, would you do it?”
“I would not do it for anything in the world,” said Horace gravely.
A bitter little smile came to the old man’s face. “I see,” he said.
“I can’t understand why you ask me,” said Horace, who was still bewildered. “Surely you—you know—”
“I only know that you think I want you to pull your horse because I have backed the other.” said the old earl, with just a ghost of a smile on his thin lips. “I would advise you not to be too puffed up with pride at your own rectitude,” he said unpleasantly, though the little smile still lingered, “because you may be very sorry one of these days that you did not do as I asked.”
“If you would tell me,” began Horace, and paused. This sudden request from the earl, who was, with all his faults, a sportsman, left him almost speechless.
“I will tell you nothing,” said the earl, “because I have nothing to tell you,” he added suavely.
Horace led the way up the stairs to the county stand. To say that he was troubled by the extraordinary request of the old man would be to put it mildly. He knew the earl as an eccentric man; he knew him by reputation as an evil man, though he had no evidence as to this. But he never in his wildest and most uncharitable moments had imagined that this old rascal—so he called him—would ask him to pull a horse. It was unthinkable. He remembered that Lord Verlond was steward of one or two big meetings, and that he was a member of one of the most august sporting clubs in the world.
He elbowed his way along the top of the stand to where the white osprey on Lady Mary’s hat showed.
“You look troubled,” she said as he reached her side. “Has uncle been bothering you?”
He shook his head. “No,” he replied, with unusual curtness.
“Has your horse developed a headache?” she asked banteringly.
“I was worried about something I remembered,” he said incoherently.
The field was at the starting-post: “Your horse is drawn in the middle,” she said.
He put up his glasses. He could see the chocolate and green plainly enough. Sir Isaac’s—grey vertical stripes on white, yellow cap—was also easy to see. He had drawn the inside right.
The field was giving the starter all the trouble that twenty-four high- spirited thoroughbreds could give to any man. For ten minutes they backed and sidled and jumped and kicked and circled before the two long tapes. With exemplary patience the starter waited, directing, imploring almost, commanding and, it must be confessed, swearing, for he was a North-country starter who had no respect for the cracks of the jockey world.
The wait gave Horace an opportunity for collecting his thoughts. He had been a little upset by the strange request of the man who was now speaking so calmly at his elbow.
For Sir Isaac the period of waiting had increased the tension. His hands were shaking, his glasses went up and down, jerkily; he was in an agony of apprehension, when suddenly the white tape swung up, the field bunched into three sections, then spread again and, like a cavalry regiment, came thundering down the slight declivity on its homeward journey.
“They’re off!”
A roar of voices. Every glass was focused on the oncoming field. There was nothing in it for two furlongs; the start had been a splendid one. They came almost in a dead line. Then something on the rail shot out a little: it was Timbolino, going with splendid smoothness.
“That looks like the winner,” said Horace philosophically. “Mine’s shut in.”
In the middle of the course the jockey on Nemesis, seeking an opening, had dashed his mount to one which was impossible.
He found himself boxed between two horses, the riders of which showed no disposition to open out for him. The field was half-way on its journey when the boy pulled the filly out of the trap and “came round his horses.”
Timbolino had a two-length clear lead of Colette, which was a length clear of a bunch of five; Nemesis, when half the journey was done, was lying eighth or ninth.
Horace, on the stand, had his stop-watch in his hand. He clicked it off as the field passed the four-furlong post and hastily examined the dial.
“It’s a slow race,” he said, with a little thrill in his voice.
At the distance, Nemesis, with a quick free stride, had shot out of the ruck and was third, three lengths behind Timbolino.
The boy on Sir Isaac’s horse was running a confident race. He had the rails and had not moved on his horse. He looked round to see where the danger lay, and his experienced eye saw it in Nemesis, who was going smoothly and evenly.
A hundred yards from the post the boy on Gresham’s filly shook her up, and in half a dozen strides she had drawn abreast of the leader.
The rider of Timbolino saw the danger—he pushed his mount, working with hands and heels upon the willing animal under him.
They were running now wide of each other, dead level. The advantage, it seemed, lay with the horse on the rails, but Horace, watching with an expert eye from the top of the stand, knew that the real advantage lay with the horse in the middle of the track.
He had walked over the course that morning, and he knew that it was on the crown of the track that the going was best. Timbolino responded nobly to the efforts of his rider; once his head got in front, and the boy on Nemesis took up his whip, but he did not use it. He was watching the other. Then, with twenty yards to go, he drove Nemesis forward with all the power of his splendid hands.
Timbolino made one more effort, and as they flew past the judge’s box there was none save the judge who might separate them.
Horace turned to the girl at his side with a critical smile. “Oh, you’ve won,” she said. “You did win, didn’t you?” Her eyes were blazing with excitement.
He shook his head smilingly. “I’m afraid I can’t answer that,” he said. “It was a very close thing.”
He glanced at Sir Isaac. The baronet’s face was livid, the hand that he raised to his lips trembled like an aspen leaf. “There’s one man,” thought Horace, “who’s more worried about the result than I am.”
Down below in the ring there was a Babel of excited talk. It rose up to them in a dull roar. They were betting fast and furiously on the result, for the numbers had not yet gone up.
Both horses had their partisans. Then there was a din amounting to a bellow. The judge had hoisted two noughts in the frame. It was a dead-heat!
“By Jove!” said Horace.
It was the only comment he made.
He crossed to the other side of the enclosure as quickly as he could, Sir Isaac following closely behind. As the baronet elbowed his way through the crowd somebody caught him by the arm. He looked round. It was Black.
“Run it off,” said Black, in a hoarse whisper. “It was a fluke that horse got up. Your jockey was caught napping. Run it off.”
Sir Isaac hesitated. “I shall get half the bets and half the stakes,” he said.
“Have the lot,” said Black. “Go along, there is nothing to be afraid of. I know this game; run it off. There’s nothing to prevent you winning.”
Sir Isaac hesitated, then walked slowly to the unsaddling enclosure. The steaming horses were being divested of their saddles.
Gresham was there, looking cool and cheerful. He caught the baronet’s eye.
“Well, Sir Isaac,” he said pleasantly, “what are you going to do?”
“What do you want to do?” asked Sir Isaac suspiciously. It was part of his creed that all men were rogues. He thought it would be safest to do the opposite to what his rival desired. Like many another suspicious man, he made frequent errors in his diagnosis.
“I think it would be advisable to divide,” said Horace. “The horses have had a very hard race, and I think mine was unlucky not to win.”
That decided Sir Isaac. “We’ll run it off,” he said.
“As you will,” said Horace coldly, “but I think it is only right to warn you that my horse was boxed in half-way up the course and but for that would have won very easily. He had to make up half a dozen—”
“I know all about that,” interrupted the other rudely, “but none the less, I’m going to run it off.”
Horace nodded. He turned to consult with his trainer. If the baronet decided to run the dead-heat off, there was nothing to prevent it, the laws of racing being that both owners must agree to divide.
Sir Isaac announced his intention to the stewards, and it was arranged that the run-off would take place after the last race of the day.
He was shaking with excitement when he rejoined Black. “I’m not so sure that you’re right,” he said dubiously. “This chap Gresham says his horse was boxed in. I didn’t see the beast in the race, so I can’t tell. Ask somebody.”
“Don’t worry,” said Black, patting him on the back, “there is nothing to worry about; you’ll win this race just as easily as I shall walk from this ring to the paddock.”
Sir Isaac was not satisfied. He waited till he saw a journalist whom he knew by sight returning from the telegraph office.
“I say,” he said, “did you see the race?”
The journalist nodded. “Yes, Sir Isaac,” he said with a smile. “I suppose Gresham insisted on running it off?”
“No, he didn’t,” said Sir Isaac, “but I think I was unlucky to lose.”
The journalist made a little grimace. “I’m sorry I can’t agree with you,” he said. “I thought that Mr. Gresham’s horse ought to have won easily, but that he was boxed in in the straight.”
Sir Isaac reported this conversation to Black.
“Take no notice of these racing journalists,” said Black contemptuously. “What do they know? Haven’t I got eyes as well as they?”
But this did not satisfy Sir Isaac. “These chaps are jolly good judges,” he said. “I wish to heaven I had divided.”
Black slapped him on the shoulder. “You’re losing your nerve, Ikey,” he said. “Why, you’ll be thanking me at dinner tonight for having saved you thousands of pounds. He didn’t want to run it off?”
“Who?” asked Sir Isaac. “Gresham?”
“Yes; did he?” asked Black.
“No, he wasn’t very keen. He said it wasn’t fair to the horses.”
Black laughed. “Rubbish!” he said scornfully. “Do you imagine a man like that cares whether his horse is hard raced or whether it isn’t? No! He saw the race as well as I did. He saw that your fool of a jockey had it won and was caught napping. Of course he didn’t want to risk a run-off. I tell you that Timbolino will win easily.”
Somewhat reassured by his companion’s optimism. Sir Isaac awaited the conclusion of the run-off in better spirits. It added to his assurance that the ring took a similar view to that which Black held. They were asking for odds about Timbolino. You might have got two to one against Nemesis.
But only for a little while. Gresham had gone into the tea-room with the girl, and was standing at the narrow entrance of the county stand, when the cry, “Two to one Nemesis!” caught his ear.
“They’re not laying against my horse!” he exclaimed in astonishment. He beckoned a man who was passing. “Are they laying against Nemesis?” he asked. The man nodded. He was a commission agent, who did whatever work the young owner required. “Go in and back her for me. Put in as much money as you possibly can get. Back it down to evens,” said Gresham decidedly.
He was not a gambling man. He was shrewd and business-like in all his transactions, and he could read a race. He knew exactly what had happened. His money created some sensation in a market which was not over-strong. Timbolino went out, and Nemesis was a shade odds on.
Then it was that money came in for Sir Isaac’s horse.
Black did not bet to any extent, but he saw a chance of making easy money. The man honestly believed all he had said to Sir Isaac. He was confident in his mind that the jockey had ridden a “jolly race.” He had sufficient credit amongst the best men in the ring to invest fairly heavily.
Again the market experienced an extraordinary change. Timbolino was favourite again. Nemesis went out—first six to four, then two to one, then five to two.
But now the money began to come in from the country. The results of the race and its description had been published in the stop-press editions in hundreds of evening papers up and down England, Ireland and Scotland. Quick to make their decisions, the little punters of Great Britain were re-investing—some to save their stakes, others to increase what they already regarded as their winnings.
And here the money was for Nemesis. The reporters, unprejudiced, had no other interest but to secure for the public accurate news and to describe things as they saw them. And the race as they saw it was the race which Sir Isaac would not believe and at which Black openly scoffed.
The last event was set for half-past four, and after the field had come past the post, and the winner was being led to the unsaddling enclosure, the two dead-heaters of the memorable Lincolnshire Handicap came prancing from the paddock on to the course.
The question of the draw was immaterial. There was nothing to choose between the jockeys, two experienced horsemen, and there was little delay at the post. It does not follow that a race of two runners means an equable start, though it seemed that nothing was likely to interfere with the tiny field getting off together. When the tapes went up, however, Nemesis half-turned and lost a couple of lengths.
“I’ll back Timbolino,” yelled somebody from the ring, and a quick staccato voice cried, “I’ll take three to one.”
A chorus of acceptances met the offer.
Sir Isaac was watching the race from the public stand. Black was at his side.
“What did I tell you?” asked the latter exultantly. “The money is in your pocket, Ikey, my boy. Look, three lengths in front. You’ll win at a walk.”
The boy on Nemesis had her well balanced. He did not drive her out. He seemed content to wait those three lengths in the rear. Gresham, watching them through his glasses, nodded his approval.
“They’re going no pace,” he said to the man at his side. “She was farther behind at this point in the race itself.”
Both horses were running smoothly. At the five-furlong post the lad on Nemesis let the filly out just a little. Without any apparent effort she improved her position. The jockey knew now exactly what were his resources and he was content to wait behind. The rest of the race needs very little description. It was a procession until they had reached the distance. Then the boy on Timbolino looked round.
“He’s beaten,” said Gresham, half to himself. He knew that some jockeys looked round when they felt their mount failing under them.
Two hundred yards from the post Nemesis, with scarcely an effort, drew level with the leader. Out came the other jockey’s whip. One, two, he landed his mount, and the horse went ahead till he was a neck in front. Then, coming up with one long run, Nemesis first drew up, then passed the fast-stopping Timbolino, and won with consummate ease by a length and a half.
Sir Isaac could not believe his eyes. He gasped, dropped his glasses, and stared at the horses in amazement. It was obvious that he was beaten long before the winning-post was reached.
“He’s pulling the horse,” he cried, beside himself with rage and chagrin. “Look at him! I’ll have him before the stewards. He is not riding the horse!”
Black’s hand closed on his arm. “Drop it, you fool,” he muttered. “Are you going to give away the fact that you are broke to the world before all these people? You’re beaten fairly enough. I’ve lost as much as you have. Get out of this.”
Sir Isaac Tramber went down the stairs of the grand-stand in the midst of a throng of people, all talking at once in different keys. He was dazed. He was more like a man in a dream. He could not realize what it meant to him. He was stunned, bewildered. All that he knew was that Timbolino had lost. He had a vague idea at the back of his mind that he was a ruined man, and only a faint ray of hope that Black would in some mysterious way get him out of his trouble.
“The horse was pulled,” he repeated dully. “He couldn’t have lost. Black, wasn’t it pulled?”
“Shut up,” snarled the other. “You’re going to get yourself into pretty bad trouble unless you control that tongue of yours.” He got the shaking man away from the course and put a stiff glass of brandy and water in his hand. The baronet awoke to his tragic position.
“I can’t pay. Black.” he wailed. “I can’t pay—what an awful business for me. What a fool I was to take your advice—what a fool! Curse you, you were standing in with Gresham. Why did you advise me? What did you make out of it?”
“Dry up,” said Black shortly. “You’re like a babe, Ikey. What are you worrying about? I’ve told you I’ve lost as much money as you. Now we’ve got to sit down and think out a plan for making money. What have you lost?”
Sir Isaac shook his head weakly. “I don’t know,” he said listlessly. “Six or seven thousand pounds. I haven’t got six or seven thousand pence,” he added plaintively. “It’s a pretty bad business for me, Black. A man in my position—I shall have to sell off my horses—”
“Your position!” Black laughed harshly. “My dear good chap, I shouldn’t let that worry you. Your reputation,” he went on. “You’re living in a fool’s paradise, my man,” he said with savage banter. “Why, you’ve no more reputation than I have. Who cares whether you pay your debts of honour or whether you don’t? It would surprise people more if you paid than if you defaulted. Get all that nonsense out of your head and think sensibly. You will make all you’ve lost and much more. You’ve got to marry—and quick, and then she’s got to inherit my lord’s money, almost as quickly.”
Ikey looked at him in despairing amazement. “Even if she married me,” he said pettishly, “I should have to wait years for the money.” Colonel Black smiled.
They were moving off the course when they were overtaken by a man, who touched the baronet on the arm.
“Excuse me. Sir Isaac,” he said, and handed him an envelope.
“For me?” asked Ikey wonderingly, and opened the envelope. There was no letter—only a slip of paper and four bank-notes for a thousand pounds each. Sir Isaac gasped and read:
“Pay your debts and live cleanly; avoid Black like the devil and work for your living.”
The writing was disguised, but the language was obviously Lord Verlond’s.