The Saturday afternoon before Goodwood, Brian spent at Hurst Park, an interested spectator of the racing. The presence of the ‘big punter’ was always a source of nervousness to the ring. Impossible horses were rushed to favouritism on the rumour that ‘Pallard had his maximum’ on that particular animal, only to be banished to obscurity when the rumour was disposed of.
Brian had a wonderful eye for a horse.
If you had stood at his shoulder, as the horses cantered to the post, and could have read the curious shorthand which he employed, you would observe him jotting down for future reference, against each horse’s name, some comment which was at once brief and illuminating. His race-card at the end of the day was covered with hieroglyphics which translated into ‘Fat’, ‘Untrained’, ‘Will stay’, ‘Ran well for five furlongs’, ‘Overtrained’, etc. He took racing seriously. It was a sport and an occupation, and for all the stories that have gone the rounds as to his reckless betting, the truth is that he was a most careful investor. He never backed a horse that was not his own property—at least, not to any amount. A sovereign was his limit on the tips which necessarily came to him, and these he only invested to give him a ‘gambling interest’ in a race.
He loved racing for racing’s sake; he could enjoy a week at Newmarket without soiling the virgin leaves of his betting-book. But when he betted, he betted freely. No price was too short for him. His ravaging commissioners devoured the markets as locusts devour the land.
And the public came in on his trail. There was never any secret about his fancy. “He comes late but often,” said the greatest of the bookmakers, “and he goes back heavily laden.”
In other words, he waited till a ‘market had been formed’, till some other horse had been installed favourite; then he stepped in and took a hand in the proceedings.
To-day he had only one horse engaged, and one which was not seriously fancied by him. It had been one of the horses with which Grey Timothy had been tried, and had finished a very bad last in the gallop.
A friend strolled up to him in the paddock. “Fancy yours, Pallard?”
Brian shook his head.
“I’ve got a fiver on him,” he said; “but it would have been better to have given it to a charity.”
Strolling round, he came upon Caggley, resplendent and glittering. The man, from his apparent uneasiness, was anxious to speak, and Brian stopped him.
“Well, Caggley, you are still at large, I observe?” he said banteringly.
Caggley grinned.
“Still at liberty, Captain. If I might be so bold as to say, I have backed your horse in this race.”
“If I might be so bold,” said Brian, “you are a fool: if this horse wins, I shall be a much-surprised man.”
He was strolling on when:
“Beg pardon, Captain,” said the man in a low voice, “you got my wire?”
Brian nodded and passed on.
He came to the members’ stand and took out his glasses.
Whitefax, his own colt, was drawn on the extreme outside, the worst place in the world on the five-furlong course at Hurst Park. That settles him, thought Brian, and gave no more thought to the matter.
He was chatting with Ernest, who had put in an unexpected appearance, when the sharp roar of the crowd told him that the race had started.
The horses bunched together on the far side of the course, and something in green and red was making the running on the rails. The diagonal black-striped jacket, he saw with mild surprise, was in the fighting line.
“Well, I’m dashed!” he said, in astonishment.
“Why are you dashed?” asked Ernest.
“My horse is going to win,” said Brian.
And at the distance the black and white jacket went suddenly to the front and, though challenged left and right, passed the post a comfortable winner by a length.
Brian put back his glasses and joined the throng making its way to the paddock.
“Backed away,” he heard somebody say; “one of these wretched starting-price jobs, don’t you know.”
Brian grinned to himself.
In the paddock he met the man who had asked him about his horse’s chances.
“You won, after all,” he said, with a meaning smile. “You beggar, why didn’t you tell me?”
Brian heaved a deep sigh.
“My dear, good friend,” he said patiently, “I told you all I knew.”
“Had a good win?” persisted the other.
Brian’s face went very red.
“I have told you I had nothing on the horse, beyond a fiver—don’t you believe me?”
His tone was sharp and threatening.
“Oh, of course, if you say so” protested the other hastily.
Brian took Ernest by the arm and walked out to meet the winner as he returned to scale.