THE AUTHOR PAYS A DIVVY.

Otago Witness, Issue 4028, 26 May 1931, Page 77

THE AUTHOR PAYS A DIVVY.

By

E. Mary Curney.

(Copyright.—For tjie Otago Witness.) “ You know,” said Mead, “it seems a darned shame to scrap the old horse; but he’ll never be any good —not in a thousand years.” “ With his pedigree,” said Em, rue- • fully, caressing the fine, pointed head, “he should beat the world! ” She eyed Mead unpleasantly. “ I believe,” said Em, “ that your training methods are all wrong! ” “ Maybe,” agreed Mead. He laughed good-humouredly, linking his arm through hers, and surveying The Author with jaundiced eyes, in which the smile still lingered. “ Anyway, De Mar will give me a couple of ponies for him. if I decide to part with the old chap.” “ You can’t, Mead! ” Em protested warmly, noting afresh the .bay horse’s many points —lean head and neck, deep girth, sloping shoulders, and great quarters. Lean, flat legs, small shapely ears, and a fine courageous eye. “De Mar will ruin him —you know he will. Let me have him, to hack and hunt.” “Hunt? Him?' Huh! With his pedigree! Don’t be funny, Em! ” “I’m not being funny!” Em retorted hotly. “Maybe the Star Strangers don’t jump as a rule, but he might if you’d give him a chance! ” “If you can make him jump!” returned Mead, provokingly, “ you can have him, my child! ” “That’s a bet! ” announced Em firmly. “You’ll be sorry!” “Possibly! ” Mead was still amused. “I’ve tried him! ” » “ You ! ” Em withered him. “ You! Rushed him at a wire fence, I suppose; and you weigh fourteen stone! ” “ I don’t! ” Mead was indignant. “Only thirteen twelve and a-half! ” “ Bah! And you’re getting a future! ” “ More than The Author’s got, anyway,” parried Mead, unkindly. “We’ll see!” returned Em erushingiy-

Mead, preparing two youngsters and Star Shine and Star Shine’s full sister. Milky Way, for the Poverty Bay Turf Club’s spring meeting, promptly forgot all about Em and The Author, until the morning that he wanted that despised and rejected beast as a track partner for the high-stepping Milky Way. The stable boy responsible for the bay horse’s wellbeing was apologetic. “ Mrs Abbot has him, sir. Has had him every morning for the last two weeks. Said it was your orders, sir.” “My orders?” demanded Mead. “ That she was to give him his morning’s work, sir.” “ Um,” said Mead, and said no more, deciding to have it out with Em at lunch time. During the morning he hoped, with vague irritation, that Em wasn’t doing anything silly—trying to jump that rotten bay, for instance. He was a valuable horse, besides being a hot-headed one; and, anyway, Em was Era. At lunch time she was mysterious, but triumphant. She jeered at Mead, and when he was irritably despotic, demanding to know what she was up to, she laughed at him and told him to' wait and see. < “If you don’t tell me,” said Mead angrily,* “ I —l’ll have to keep the brute locked up.” Em went round and sat on the arm of his chair. She towsled his hair, and when he looked up, kissed him loudly on his sulky lips. Em was like that—took an unfair advantage of a fellow. “ Darling,” said Em, “ I believe we are on a win, but I don’t want to tell you until I’m sure. Trust me.” “ I’m afraid,” said Mead, bluntly. “ He’s such a hot-headed brute.” “ But such an intelligent one,” Em assured him, earnestly. “ And he’s got such heart! ” “ He’s all heart.” retorted Mead, grudgingly. “ That’s why I kept on hoping.” “ It’s why I keep on hoping.” said Em seriously. “ He’s hot-headed, but he’s honest and intelligent. Once he knows what you want, he never lets up trying.” “He’s not a dog!” returned Mead shortly. “I should hope not,” said Em drily. “ Mead, give me until to-morrow.” He assented, uneasily.

¥ V ¥ It was in a hidden valley at the back of the farm that Em Abbot had put her scheme into effect. It was only just off the road, but a shoulder of the hill hid her private training ground from view; and there, over some willow rails, she began her experiment with the hot-headed horse. On the first day she put him twice over a rail two feet high. On the

third day she raised it a foot. Thereafter, she jumped him over it at a variety of paces, once daily for a week. At first he was shy of it, checking and jumping awkwardly, but never refusing. At the end of the week he was beginning to take it more or less in his stride, clearing it easily; so Em raised it a foot, and The Author, snorting uneasily, stood off it and jumped so that Em was nearly unseated. Always the bay horse jumped in his headlong, erratic way, from any spot that suited his fancy. Once or twice lie rapped the pole smartly, but, being clever on his feet, landed safely. For four days, twice a day, hoping against hope, Em took him over those rails; and sometimes he stood off a good eight feet, and flew them; but mostly he negotiated them in a scrambling buck that was difficult to ride, and got him nowhere. It did not seem to matter how fast she took him—pace made no difference in his style; and the only bright spot in his erratic performance lay in the fact that he never refused, and never failed to get over. And then Em had a brain wave.

“If,” argued Em, “I fixed a pole two feet from the ground, and about three feet from the jump, he’d jump that too.” And he did. He did not like it. but he did. You see, he had no idea where he was going; but he had to get there in the shortest possible space of time; so he stood off the desired distance, and, in the course of time, learned to handle himself with astonishing ease. Later, in fear and trembling, what though she was as a rule a fearless rider, she moved the pole out by two feet, explaining the manoeuvre verbally to the seemingly uninterested Author. She even bumped his velvet nose on it, but he only jerked his head up, and stared woodenly into the distance. So she mounted, took him back to his mark, and gave him his head; and The Author took it like a bird, with his wild eyes straining to pierce the distance and pick out the winning post, wherever it might be. After that, Em took him over various gates, which he stood off, and took in his stride, having come, possibly, to the conclusion that that was the quickest way to get over them. Em was so elated that she took him over the fence on to the course where Mead was watching the two youngsters; but when he saw the way The Author stood off that fence he forgot all about them. * * # It was the first day of the Poverty Bay Turf Club’s spring meeting, held on the Makaraka course, and the second race—the hurdles. Distance, one and a-half miles. Over six flights of hurdles. Ten horses running, including that prince of performers, Russet Apple. The day was cold and dampish, with a chilly wind, and The Author, No 10, and a rank outsider, with nine stone —bottom weight—paraded round the birdcage in his rug. He was feeling very fit, and distinctly saucy, but his manners were irreproachable, and Mead felt quite cheerful—almost optimistic, indeed, as he legged his jockey into the saddle. - “Hang on! ” Mead warned the black and silver clad boy. “He jumps bigger and bigger! ” “ ’Ave he jumps any bigger,” declared the boy, who fancied he was Irish, “It’s jump by himself he will! I ain’t no aviator! ” “ Remember you’re pilot, though! ” said Mead drily. They went out—cantered passed. ‘ The boy. according to directions, went down with Russet Apple, so no one really noticed the glossy, big-striding bay. The- Author had drawn fourth place, with Russet Apple third, and Silver Sheen between them and Johnny Walker, on the rails. Back on the lawn Em and Mead wandered ‘ and fidgeted, hating the interminable time that must elapse before the start. They watched the tote— The Author remained unbacked. He was new to the game, and the Star Strangers never jumped. At the last moment Em pulled a face at Mead, and stampeded for the machine. Mead followed. “Don’t be an ass!” said Mead, but

Em, disregarding, put up a fiver. Mead sighed—and surreptitiously planked on a pony. Then they climbed to the members’ stand, and Watched the horses milling at the bend at the top of the course. Em, clad in a soft green frock was too eager to notice the tang of the nor’wester that blew in fitful, unpleasant gusts, straight into the stand. Presently the balloon went up; and then they were away to a good start, with Russet Apple jumped to the rails, displacing Johnny Walker, which pulled out to make the running, forcing the black and silver to drop back into third place. On the bend, however, The Author slipped in and took the first hurdle close on Russet Apple’s heels, standinj

at least eight feet off his jump, and gaining a cool length. Johnny Walker made a gallant bid, between the flights, to oust the bay from the rails, but had to give way at the second jump, for The Author fairly left him standing. Fortunately Russet Apple was jumping extremely well—otherwise the black and silver would have had to check to jump. Down the straight, and round the bend to the hurdles on the far side, Johnny Walker and The Tartar, coming up from fifth, made the pace, and made it a willing one; but Russet Apple staved them off, and The Author managed to retain his place on the rails. At the hurdles Johnny Walker came down, involving The Tartar and Hot Finish in his fall; and the grey, Silver Sheen, until then lying sixth, hit up a corking pace that began to tell on Russet Apple. The Author lay third—and handy —when Cracker Jack, under pressure, made a bid that finished Russet Apple as far as the race was concerned. Silver Sheen got the rails, with Cracker Jack, still cracking on a hot pace, alongside, and Russet Apple lying third on the rails. Round tin? bend, on the home run. the position was the same, but once on the straight, things began to happen. The Author pulled out, and passed Russet Apple just in front of the hurdles. In the stands, a frantic road went up. “Silver Sheen! Silver Sheen!” “Cracker Jack!” “Russet Apple!” “Look! " Look at that!” “What is it?” “Naughty Baby!” “No it isn’t! It’s The Author! The Author!”

And The Author it was, over the hurdles in a long flying leap that landed him alongside his only rivals. Between the flights they lay neck and neck; but at the hurdles The Author’s jockey, caution flung to the winds, fairly yelled as he lifted; and The Author flew fifteen feet in the leap, landing a clear length ahead. Down the straight they came, whips rising and falling; but The Author, with his heart in his courageous eyes staved off the challenge, to give the black and silver a clear length’s victory. “There you are!” said Em. “One fifty! Don’t you wish you’d backed him?”

“ I did!” said Mead, scrambling wildly for the steps, so that he might be at the gate to lead his horse in. “ That’s what’s cut your divvy! Collect, there’s a dear!”

Em grabbed his ticket, and he stampeded; but Em stood staring at the piece of paper he Tiad passed to her. “A pony!” murmured Em. “Goo!” Then she did a most unladylike thing; for she leaned over the rails that jutted out over the bird cage; and — “Good old Author!” yelled Em. But The Author, what time they stripped him, merely stared woodenly into the distance.