The Anaconda standard. [volume] (Anaconda, Mont.) 1889-1970, 1899-07-12
GREAT THURMAN BROKEN
M. F. Dryer, King Batter of the
Bookmakers.
RACING HIS ONE PASSION
A Fallen Sovereign of the Stables-His
One Solitary Hope Was to
Get Even With the
World.

| In the veranda of little cottage
overlooking Gravesend race track there
| sits thin, trouble weary man of his
tory says the New York Herald. The
armenian is not large, yet it quite
| swallows him up, 50 attenuated is the
crouching shape in III fitting snuff COL
ored tweed, and the bronze of the gaunt
race Is suffused with deadly pallor.
me races of the day are DONE the vast,
| hoWllng mob has crammed crestfallen
or triumphant into the waiting trains,
whlrling cityward over the rich sweep
OF green whose broken horizon is lined
with mushroom like stables, there are
| men gathering the wreckage of the
days riot, and where an hour before
| the 10000 jammed to the track side and
shook the earth with cheers there is
| only the peace of the closing twilight
hazed with cool mist rolling up from
! the sea. The solitary views it all from
| the cottage step, and it soothes him, for
| he is a very sick man. The thin, brown
| hands are clasped before him, and sunk
| en- eyes, that have a recoiling, half
| hunted look in their depths, survey the
| distance in silence, for he is a man of
| the past. 1t is Michael f. Dwyer, the
| greatest plunger in the history of the
| turf, once seer of the paddock and king
\ batter of the bookmakers.
Though yet not SO, the great turfman
| is broken in nerve, in health, in hope
and in fortune. 1t is not till he speaks
| that one realizes his condition There
| Is melancholy tremor in his low voice
| that appeals to ones sympathies; and
| the accents are not those of the man
| OF tremendous action that he has been
W.T. .f
| ing Mr. DWyer is helped from the cot
| tage across the dew-wet grass to the
| stables where paltry score of hors as
| or doubtful class-all that remains Of
| an internationally famous and invincible
| stable-are exercised under his orders;
I and he watches them with the same
| fidelity and the same Jealous hope in his
| heart as when he prepared the world
| heaters Hanover or Longstreet for the
| Handicap and plunged a hundred thou
| sand dollars at short odds on his rec
| ord breakers.
Every afternoon Mr.. Dwyer sits in his
| armchair close to the judges stand in
| the midst of the riotous thousands, try
| ing to enter with the enthusiasm of old
| in the sport which is his one passion, to
succeed in his one hope. And when the
| races are done kindly hands help the
former sovereign of the stables back to
| the little cottage where he can sit on
friends and watch the closing shadows
| over the level sweep which will hold
| him in it's spell to the last.
| To succeed is Michael F. Dryers one
| hope still, but not as once he hoped. He
| is anxious to lay up millions for some
one who shall come after him to enjoy.
| He is living butrfor one thing on earth
| to get even with the world again, and
| there let his great career close. For
! Mr.. Dwyer, with all, the millions that
have passed through his hands-and
| reputable authority states it is to be no
| less than 10 millions of dollars-is now
| on the short side of the great game to
| the tune of many thousands: and
| though those who are his creditors new
| er press him, confident that if he wins
| out he will pay to his last cent-for 4
| more honest sportsman never lived-the'
| one potent desire that keeps Mike"
| Dwyer in the tide of affairs is the hope
! that he will quit even.
The former monarch of the turf was
| himself seen at his cottage at Graves
| end by a Herald representative. and
| the interview only bore ont the conclus-
| ions of competent authority.
Mr. Dwyer, the careers of men who
| have been winners at long odds in the
| great handicap of life have great fas-
| cination for the public"
II have nothing to say to the pub
| lic,' said the turf king, disconsolately.
| but your active lie, MI. DWyef,
while unique in the matter of courage
and persistency, is typical in many
ways"
My career draws to close" said the
plunger, prophetically. 1.-THE world does
not now wish to hear from me. Why
| should / speak,"
"Out of the fullness of your vast ex-
perience," said the interviewer, what
| have you to say to the young man of
| means, a lover of horses and ambitious
| to succeed in your vocation? Would
you advise him to get control of n
| stable and never bet, to let some one
| else run the stable and challenge the
bookmakefs,r or to turn tbookmaker him
| self and challenge both?"
The turfman hesitated. at is not for
me to give such momentous advice" he
said decisively, at last, for the ques-
ton of a career is one of individual
solving. If a young man should sue
coed on my advice. whatever it might
be, l would get no thanks; if he failed,
l would get only blame. Advice is like
money-hard to get and harder to hold.
l never presume to adVise-I know too
much of life and affairs-I, who have
made successful men by the score: yes,
hundreds. but who are far from realz-
ing my ambition. The tide in the af-
fairs of men, which taken at the flood
leads on to fortune sooner or later has
it's ebb. Mine haf been varied and
difficult career. ( have ty5ted the Joys
| of success and the BIZ ness of defeat.
/ want no man to follow in my foot
steps, and would not advise even We're
/ the foremost millionaire on earth. As
for my life history, Ii is better that IL
remain in obscurity. l have always
been a silent man in active life and l
shall be doubly so now. If you want
facts of my career go to others who are
more ready of speech and more compe-
tent to give. That is all. Good night"