The Ely miner. [volume] (Ely, Minn.) 1895-1986, 1907-08-16


are focused upon a platform built at
some elevation from the ground and
supported by posts that are painted
white. A solitary man stands upon
the floor of the structure. He strides
back and forth and gesticulates vio-
lently. Sometimes he seems to appeal
in supplication. At others his ges-
lures are those of determined COM
mand. His lips are seen to move, but
the sounds of his voice are drowned
in the din of the throng
Below him is a field of high-spirited,
sensitive, nervous and fractions thor
oughbred horses. Mounted on them
are mere wisps of boys, who jerk en-
ergetically at the bride reins, kick
with their heels and express their
thoughts vehemently into the ears of
the animals they are riding.
With snap and a stunning sound,
like the vibration of a string of a
double bass, the barrier is suddenly
released by the man on the platform,
and q dozen eager colts plant their
hoofs firmly into the soft soil of the
track, scrambling with the instinct of
their natures, which education long
and patient has developed, to reach
place in front, while the monkeylike
boys on their backs, their sharp faces
pushed forward eagerly into the wind,
peer on both sides of them to discern
an opening where they may get through
and improve their chances to finish
first in the race. ....
Thirty thousand eyes, scanning in
tently the turn of the track, follow
closely the running of the field, and
$4,000 voices begin to croak, and
scream, and babble. Some are the
hysterical notes of a nervous woman
who has wagered half her weeks pin
money upon the race. Some are the
cultural roars of the "touts," the stable
followers and the hoarse criers of
wares and edibles. Some are the
cackle of superheated storekeepers
and possibly their clerks.
Cry for the Favorite.
Through it all, and above it all, is
the note of personality, the cry for the
popular jockey of the day. 1t is
queer phenomenon of mighty sport
1t is the slogan of the American for
the individual who does things. The
horses are racing. The horses are the
motive for the struggle, the backbone
of pastime that was inaugurated cen.
turtles ago, but the majority of the
vast mass congested within iron rail-
ings are shouting for the jockey.
Affair down the course at the field
stand one hears Come on, you
Miller!" The exhortation increases in
volume, and all the field stand appears
to be shouting, Come on, you Miller!"
The thousands upon the lawn take up
the refrain, the bookmakers and their
clerks join in, if Miller victory means
a victory for them, and at last there is
a Niagaralike thunder of appeal,
Come on, you Miller!" an anxious
moment or two, then a wild screech of
triumph, and the "Millerites" rush
away to obtain their gains, if Miller
happens to have won.
There is barely day that it is pos
sible to miss this queer chain of Incl
dent at the race course, for the race
goers rush with enthusiastic favor to
the support of some jockey who, by
his skill and his knowledge of men
and animals, beats his fellow jockeys
in the daily tumult of track sport
Names Live Long in Memory.
Time passes and boys grow old and
heavy. The idol of the present day
will be only the memory of the past.
Yet the names of the great riders live
with racegoers even longer than the
names of statesmen who were contem-
poraneous with them. The senator
from New York of decade ago may
be forgotten by another decade, but
the name of Tod Sloan will live for
a century, and maybe longer The
riding of Garrison served to enrich
the phraseology of the English Ian
guage, for Garrison finish Is ap-
plicable now to more things than
horse race. Walter Miller, the lead
tpg rider of the United States at the