The Seattle post-intelligencer. [volume] (Seattle, Wash. Terr. [Wash.]) 1888-1914, 1891-10-11

@A4aK e %ssstag in /. the ii.
tie, shriveIed, wizened old man who shut
fed along the ground in sidelong
fashion, with peculiar jerk of the
body that was half limp and half a
twist, and which gave him the appearance
of being propelled along by an invisible
lever-a man who was worn, faded and
withered, but wonderfully light and active
withal, and with a razor-like sharpness of
look and feature that seemed out
of keeping with all else appertain-
ing to him. l rather fancy he grew
upon me, so to speak. Wherever one
went in racing. he was always to be met
with; his was always the first face that ap-
peared at the carriage door with packet
of race cards in his hand, as the vehicle
drew up to the grand stand. Gradually,
as / became familiar with his presence,
there dawned upon me a strange, unac-
countable, indefinable sense of something
uncanny about him, something that was
wanting, something that was not as other
men. had tried and tried to find name,
a reason for the mysterious repulsion, and
always failed. In all probability / might
never have succeeded in settling the doubt
to my dying day, if accident had not
thrown the explanation in my way.
1t was at the Doncaster meeting of 49,.
That was the year in which we saw one of
those peculiar recoyeries of early two-year-
old form for which the st. Leger. over all
other races, has been famous. My COM
panion to the course on the Leger morning
was a leading jockey, rider who, unlike
the majority of the fashionable school, had
fought his way to the top of his profess
sion by sheer merit-hard work, pluck,
talent, and, above all, answering honesty.
being the constituents that had led to his
success. His fame as a horseman had
long been established among that vast sec
ton of the public interested in the turf
and its ways. On this particular morning
we had chatted pleasantly all the
way down to the course, and my
companion, who for the purposes of
this narrative I will call Frederick
Bowman, was in high spirits, for ne had a
shrewd idea that he would bring off 40
to 1 shot in the big race of the day.
Jockeys after all are but mortal, and per-
haps they may possess as large a portion
of malice in their composition as the ma
jority of human kind. Certainly, Bow
man frankly confessed to me that the
pleasure of landing the Sellinger Che had
already won it three times) on filly be-
longing to his earliest and best friend and
patron, would be equaled only by the de-
light of treating the public to a staggerer.
As he had given me timely information of
the good thing the night before and
enabled me to get my money on at
long price, was fully in mood to enter
into the joke. The carriage had stopped
at the back of the grand stand, and the
nf no old ~,
the doorway. AS his eye fell on Bowman
his face lnstantaneously lit up with most
remarkable expression of mingled hatred
and fear. For a moment he looked at
Bowman with the steady, intent malevo-
lence of man who never forgot and never
forgave. Then he sharply turned his back
upon us and darted away to the next cab
Turning to Bowman, l observed that he
had suddenly become grave and silent and
stern. l looked at him surprisedly. As
We passed through the gate leading into
the paddock, he seemed to recover himself
alittle, and with sigh of relief, turned TO
me.
"You seem astonished," he said. land
rrally so. The sight of that man al
Hays gives me feeling of revulsion. even
alter al these years" he added, more to
himself than to me-
Strange" L replied, something like
the same sensation has impressed itself on
me In connection with him, though | can
scarcely describe my feeling as one of re-
vulsion. cannot apply any kind of desig-
nation TO It, except maze and doubt"
81 have heard others make the same re-
mark about him." answered Bowman
looking at me keenly. perhaps | can
settle your doubt. Have you ever heard
him speak,"
With the utterance of these words flood
OF hight burst upon me. That was it. The
Y Gfa
idea never dawned on me before?
No" cried. quickly.
No arc ever will, said Bowman, with
I" hat Is more, one side of his
ir2Io the temple To the Jaw, is dead.
ne man 8 40 opened the carriage door for
US was, hfteen years ago, one of the heav-
lest wagerers on the turf. the leyiathan of
the betting ring, a head and shoulders
ABOVE the rest of his class, and owner of a
large stud of horses as well. 1t seems
strange, doesn't it, looking at what he il
nowr But it's true, nevertheless, as |
know 70 my regret"
Your | exclaimed, surprised at the
Yes, he responded, al was unhappily
associated with some part of his storv.'
What was it2" asked eagerly.
As put the question the numbers for
the first race went up.
No time TO tell you now" said Bow
I"s tuAhtAls toNaEu the dressing room
M IN this race. Come to nv room al
the hotel tonight. | shall be alone. and
I'll tell you all about it" anu
ihat afternoon was no different from all
others of its kind. One by one the races al
that day took their places among the
things that had been. The Leger with its
concomitant rattle and roar and ROM
came and passed, and, like the Others re-
manned but memory. Bowman won the
great race, as he had expected, and had
the pleasure of seeing his mount. Duenna,
canter home tour-lengths winner from
the Derby and Oaks victresses of that wear
landing me the nice little stake for which
l had backed her. The general frenzy ar
tendant upon the dump" had barely sub
sided when l felt an arm slip through
. mine, and Bowman's voice sounded in my
ears.
These people will drive me mad with
their congratulations if | stay here" h,
said. "let US get out of il, for mercy.
sake Not now, their ewes are upon us
We shall be followed. When | give the
signal We will slip out.
As he spoke, the numbers for the next
vaaa xrar.s hn:StAH and all ayes uAra AZ