Evening star., 1942-09-14

without holding
our nose.
We met him
outside Of the Henry AsLsnsrs.
race track on the day the Kentucky
Derby Of Hungary-the st. Stephens
Handicap-was run. That is, ne
met us, proving, as we said later
after we had put the bite on the
Morris Plan, that a sucker is a
sucker in any language. With Old
World grace and checkered vest
he gallantly led us to our seats.
bought us programs, nudged us
when the national anthem was
played, and generally chaperoned us.
He was a former jockey. he said.
We believed him, just why well
never know, because In our travels
to the race tracks of the world We
have met no fewer than q million
former jockeys. Common sense
should tell us that there is limit
to former jockeys-that even If they
reproduced like the oyster, and
we're protected by months without
an r in them, former jockeys could
not be so plentiful.
In this particular instance even a
casual survey of his girth should
have told us that this Hungarian
thad never been jockey, unless 1t
had been back in the days when
dinosaurs and mastadons we're the
vogue, and 3-year-old thorough
bred thought nothing Of picking
up two or three hundred pounds
In weight.
The first good thing our Hunga-
rian friend put us on was-well
never forget his name-a colt called
Tolarin. We went for q mess Of
pengos. Tolarin broke 18th In field
Of Is and under stout urging by his
jockey maintained that position
throughout. There were moments
when Tolarin threatened to become
10th in field of Is.
Explanation Weak.
The Hungarian, who had taken a
modest 10 per cent cut for his
trouble, had an answer for Tolarin's
failure. 1t was pure Santa Anita,
classic AQueduct.
"The jockey wasn't trying" he
said, in an accent 80 thick that
stocky midget could have walked on
it without begging down.
We didn't believe that. We felt
that the jockey was trying that he
was trying his best to get Tolarin
in before night fell and he was left
alone out there In the woods.
The reference to woods perhaps
callS for a bit of explaining. At this
track there was q sizeable forest.
Nearly all Of the races started deep
within it. and the horses ran for
quite q while before they emerged
into view. What the jockeys did
under the cover OF the leaves We
don't know, but we have always
had the feeling that they dis
mounted and cut cards to determine
the winner.
After we had lost four straight
races, our Hungarian expert sug-
gested that We visit the paddock and
watch the horses being saddled. 1t
was here that we got our first close
range view of Hungarian jockeys.
They all look like Gary Cooper, only
they are taller. The one that
mounted our horse tour expert had
already put our bet DOWN was a
good six feet six and we couldn't
help feeling that we would have q
better chance OF winning If the
horse changed places and rode the
jockey.
This race, the fifth, was the st.
Stephens handicap. It started In
the woods, too, and after what
seemed an hour the field broke into
the clear and 1t was possible to fol-
low ones choice. Our mustang, de-
spite the handicap of Gary Cooper
on his back, was right up in the lead.
We started yelling. You know what
sort Of yelling-the American sort
that goes: Come on you bum, come
on You bum. Ride him, you dope,
ride him. Hit him! Hit him!o
Yelling Futile.
For q full 10 seconds we uttered
the cries Of the average American
lover Of the thoroughbred.
Then, all Of q sudden, we heard
our own voice. It banged us in the
ears. We stopped and looked around.
Not another soul was yelling, or even
mumbling. The Hungarians sat
quietly in their seats, just as If they
were watching the last act OF
gripping theatrical performance.
Those whose eyes were not fastened
on the track turned to look at the
American who was making spec
tacle Of himself.
Our guide nudged us.
I'VE never shout or cheer" he
said.
Nuts TO that" we answered.
climbing higher on our seat and