The Races at Raupo Flat.

Taranaki Daily News, 22 December 1920, Page 9 (Supplement)

The Races at Raupo Flat.

A XMAS EXPERIENCE

by ''lloturoa".)

It was Stalker v.iio proposed the trip to Raupo Flat. He'd been there before he said, knew the chief rangitira, the rangitira's wives, and every dog in the pa. Stalker reckoned it was the trip of trips, and we believed him. Casey declared himself in, and while I was hovering on the brink, little Molloy said he was just crazy to go. So I joined up. Stalker secured a decrepit looking double buggy, and then went over to the Criterion to order the "grub". It consisted of a couple of cases of Johnny Walker. Stalker reckoned it was better to die of drowning than of thirst any day. Then we packed ourselves and the ''grub" into the buggy, Stalker took the reins, and away we went. Stalker evidently thought he was behind Author Dillon and Cathedral Chimes, for he set a pace that threatened to dismember the crazy buggy, jettison the grub, and more or less annihilate the party, but barring running over a dog and wiping out a dozen or so hens, and one or two other things, there was practically no damage done.

When the team eventually settled down to a steady trot I had time to take' stock of my companions. Stalker was a large, fat gentleman of some thirty-five (hard) winters. His hair was carrotty, close-clipped, and his dial—that part of it which wasn't eclipsed by a 1: ige mouth—was the color and hardness of a brick wall. He had an aggressive chin, and largo, freckled hands. He was dressed to kill. His loud check suit would have knocked Paddy the Flier a twister. He wore a golf cap of similar material, a lurid tie of slaughterhouse hue, and carmine boots. Whatever the rangitira and his wives thought of us as a whole, they could not fail to be impressed with Stalker.

Casey wasn't anything- like the stage Irishman as portrayed by Sheridan. Casey was a thick-set, nuggetty little fellow, whose chief characteristics consisted of a stiff chestnut moustache, a head as large and as bald as a pumpkin, and a body like a barrel. He and Stalker were a tight fit in the front' seat, but they balanced the buggy splendidly. There was nothing outstanding or aggressive about Casey's raiment.

Molloy, as you may have guessed, was a jockey, and what wasn't hid under a huge cap was merely seven stone of skin and bone —decorated with a heliotrope coat, swagger cream riding breeches, grey leggings, and suede cloth topped boots, size 2. There wasn't much of Molloy's features, but he had a sharp nose and a pair of beady, bright eyes, full of cunning. He was giving me a few stone in weight, but by pushing the grub on his side of the buggy equilibrium was just about secured. It was a hot, dry, dusty drive, and necessitated several stoppages to water the horses and to quench our own thirsts. Casey advocated caution in the way we were settling the grub, but Stalker assured us that we could get reinforcements at the Pungatawa pub, which he/expected to reach about midday. Molloy was willing to chance it, and so was I. We boxed on.

Noon came and went, and still Stalker was "shooing" on the tired team. I ventured some remark about Stalker making a noise like a wahine frying sausages, but was promptly howled down by the hungry trio. By this time we had come to the end of the metal, and Casey had gloomy forebodings of what would happen to us if it rained, and we got stranded in the wild, wild bush., "Oh, we're all right." Stalker assured him; "there's four bottles left in one case and the other's full."

After taking the wrong turning four or five times, and being directed' by occasional swaggers, we reached Pungatawa about 2.45, and pulled up nt the nub. The boss was pleased to see us. In fact, he hadn't seen a white man, with the exception of a couple of down-and-out swaggers, for three months. I '.shouted, Stalker shouted, Molloy shoutled, and the boss shouted. Casey shouted last. The rouseabont fed and watered the horses, and we had another round. By then the missus had rustled up some dinner, which was washed down with two more rounds. Molloy and I voted for staying there, but Casey was dead against it, and Stalker reckoned he was going to the races at Raupo Flat, so that was the end of it. The team was harnessed, and the grub case refilled. I shook hands solemnly with the boss; Stalker kissed his wife, and Molloy held a giggling Maori girl for ten seconds in" a till-we-meet-again ntrangle-hold. And then we got on the road again.

We reached Raupo Flat at dusk, and the natives gave us a royal welcome. OnQ took the hofses' heads. Another assisted Stalker to the ground (he needed some assistance). Fifteen or sixteen struggled with the grub, which I could see was going to cause us considerable worry that evening. We were escorted to the big runanga (meeting house), where the chief rangitira and his wives welcomed us. The chief ordered the grub to be brought in, and eventually it came along—six bottles shy. Stalker had a kororo with the chief, and we entered the runanga. It was a largish place, and was rather more than comfortably filled. There must have been nearly three hundred Maoris in the "joint", and about a hundred kuris (dogs). A bedlam of noise emanated from the throng, and the atmosphere was one that would have made Hackensmidt cough like an asthmatic. Waves of various odours came from all directions, and Molloy had to grab Casey to keep him from (lushing back through the door. The chief commanded silence, and all but the kuris responded. Then he spoke a spell, and the natives began to look at us with awe Stalker whispered to me that they took us for j the Governor and suite, and he said it was a pity to disillusion the dusky brethren.

When our eyes became accustomed to the dim light we had a fair chance of taking stock of the rnnanga's contents. A number of old bucks snored loudly by the door. Younger ones squatted in circles, and played noisily at euchre and nap. In a far corner a couple of dozen young fellows were indulging in a game of two-up, and Molloy, who had a "double header" and the cutest little snide "kip" in his pocket, wanted badly to get into the game.

Dinner would be served soon, the chief announced, and everybody at once sat up and began to tnkc notice. A door at the top end opened, and a number of bines (young women) emerged from the kitchen hearing tin dishes of steaming viands—pork, tunas, shark, crayfish, cabbage and kumeras—and the gallaxy of odours that assaulted our aos-

trils reminded me of my last visit to the foretastle of a Japanese tramp. Casey thought he was back in the soap works, while even the imperturbable Stalker reckoned the "pong" beat Haini iug Street by several lengths. Howi ever, we fell to with the rest, and after we. had settled down to our atride we found the going fairly good. Dinner over, the old people dodged off to bed, the younger ones started their games once again, and we joined the chief and a few chosen bucks in a friendly.glass. They may not have 'been expert English linguists, but all understood the meaning 1 of ''lili 'em up again "

Bye and bye a wahine made strenuous attacks on a discordant piano, and sang "Till the Boys Come Home", "Beautiful Ohio", and "The Miner's Farewell"—all to the time of "On the Ball". The waipiro was disappearing fast now, and Stalker demanded to sing or fight or run the chief a hundred yards for one of his wives. We compromised by allowing him to sing. Molloy vamped "Tennessee'', while Stalker lifted up his voice in song: "I paid my penny fee To see that tattooed She. She had Sir Herbert Tree Tattooed upon her knee, And a big Union Jack Tattooed upon her back, And down below— Upon her toe— Jack Johnson done in black. And on her fixture She had a picture, Of her home in Tennessee''

Then Casey sang. And I sang twice. Molloy sang, and we all sang together.' The chief reckoned he hadn't had such fun since the old mare kicked his grandmother on the head.

The sun must have got a shock the next morning when it climbed over Tapu Hill, across Raupo Flat, and peeped in through the cracks in Raupo ruuanga. The revellers lay where they fell, game to the last, battling against the soporific charm:; of the invincible Waipiro. Stalker had one arm round the, chief's neck. Casey had one hand in tht chief's pocket. Molloy's head rested evenly on the keyboard of the piano, the flats of CI, A, and B being smashed beyond repair. I sat up and surveyed the sorry crowd, rubbing my aching head the while. Then I noticed a bottle protruding from Stalker's pocket. It was only quarter full, but one has to be thankful for small mercies. The waipiro was "a skinner" when I replaced the bottle in Stalker's pocket. The racss commenced at 9.30 a.m., Raupo time, which was about 11 a.m. civilised time. A stream of natives, Maori weeds, kuris, etc., set out for the Flat an hour before, and, judging by the excitement, the swearing, barking and din of the motley crowd, one would have imagined that six cirenses and a dozen buck-jumping outfits had hit the village at once. We drove over in the buggy, and, as events turned out, it was fortunate that we did.

Tlie course was about six furlongs in circumference, the centre being raupo .swam]). Henare, mounted on a fleabitten grey, was clerk of the course, and had a busy day keeping tht horde of kuris off the race track. Tito was starter, and the chief occupied the judge's stand—a primitive structure of kerosene boxes. The stewards' room was built of packs, rags and corrugated iron. end was open at the top. By favor of the stewards, the jockeys were allowed to use it as a dressing room as well. Pieaninnies and kuris watched proceedings through the holes in the sides. Somebody rang a bell, and entries were taken for the opening event. There were five runners; four local horses and one belonging to a neighboring tribesman. Stalker dovued the bag, making £7 Us Oil rattle like .-C-'nO, and I clerked for him. Stalker offered V, to 4 the field, and the locals put their heads down and charged him with handfuls of silver for a prad named Porangi. The price shortened to '-evens", and then to 2 to 1 on, but still the money rained in. The neighboring tribesman put a quiet thirty bob on his horsn, Matamata, at threes. Matamata was our only hope. The jockeys, whose only distinguishing features were shirts of various colors, were cheered as they did their preliminaries. Tito rode round .to the fivefurlong peg. and the chief mounted the biuizine boxes. There was some delay at the post owing to the fractiousness of Porangi, but eventually the favorite got a "fly". Excitement ran higli as Porangi led Matamnta by a length entering the straight, and just when Stalker and I were wondering what it v.'ould be like to-fight a mere matter of five hundred angry natives, Matamata drew out and won by a long neck. The chief promptly placed them as follows: Porangi 1 Matamata ~ . 2

Consternation and anger covered Stalker's face, and ably backed up by Mulamata's owner, lje made a stirring address to the stewards as follows: "What sort of rules do you run under here? Win, tie or wrangle, or just plain Ratt'erty's? Strike me pink, you've got Miramar beaten to a frazzle. It that wall-eyed old blanker of a judge doesn't put up the right numbers I'll ride into Te Kuiti and bring out sixteen policemen, three detectives, the president of the. Racing Conference and the captain of the Salvation Army." He then read a page and a half out of Hansard, quoted section 175 of the Opunake by-law's, and threatened to have them all disqualified under the Long Beer Act Meanwhile Stalker raged up and down outside, and quoted Shakespeare, Tom Wilford, Henry Lawson and Mrs, Henry Wood. That settled it, and the stewards announced that the result would lie declared a dead-heat. Stalker was somewhat mollified, but with a little financial assistance from us, and a trifling revision of the rules of arithmetic, and the introduction of a few exhibition medals, he managed to pay all winners. Stalker was a man not easily squelched, and after cashing a couple of cheques drawn on the Bank of No Hope, opened gingerly on the next. This race was won by the favorite fairly and squarely, if'the fact that the others were pulled up could be willed fair, and Stalker lost again. Several more cheques were cashed, and Stalker boxed on.

Then came the last race, a six furlong event, and the principal race of the day. The chief hart a horse named Tarawera in it. and Tarawera was a screaming hot favorite. This was where Casey nscd hir- head. He approached the chief, who had backed every winner so far, and inquired what., Tarawera's prospects were "He win hce-see," replied the chief "Yes. He win all right," said Casey, "and I've got £2OO on'him with the big bookmakers ,in Wellington. He win all right!" They shook hands on it, and just as an afterthought Casey asked, "Who's riding Tarawera, chief;'' "Oh, mv pov." replied tile chief -What?" yelled Casey, "that little kid?" "(Hi, he ride him orritc," said the chief. "Tioodness gracious," "roaned Casey, "if I'd known that I wouldn't, have put a match on him. Now I've got a boy here, Tod Sloan, whom I brought out from England, He's

the best rider in the world. You let him ride. He win hee-see!" The chief took a lot of convincing, but eventually gave in, and "Tod Sloan", alias Molloy, climbed into the saddle. Stalker bet 2 to' 1 Tarawera, and accommodated all comers. Business was as brisk as a public bar at five minutes to six on Saturday. My fingers ached writing the wagers.

The chief called "Tod vSloan" aside, and giving him the No. 1 marble, told him to go and have a dip in the lucky bag for places. Then Tito cornered him and told him to "look out for te fly". "How shall I come up?" asked Tod; "walk up, or trot up?" "Py korry, you'll gallop up for my money," replied Tito. Casey then had a word with "Tod". "You'll have to pull him up, Molloy,'' lie said, "or they'll pull us to pieces." "Bli-me," said Molloy, "I'll do my best, tut I ain't no blinkin' Sandow!" Things were looking bad for Stalker.

The field lined up in front of the judge's box (or boxes). Tito assumed an air of importance, and angrily harangued the riders. A couple of halfbroken colts on the outside broke away, and Tito grew mad. Jumping down from his perch, he made a line on the ground with his heel, and thundered: "Now, you toe te rine (line), or I fine you te five pound—and give you te blaek eye!" The restive colts were brought into line. Tarawera came up with a sharp dash, and they were off. Around the turn and along the back Tarawera increased his lend, despite "Tod's" efforts to restrain him, and the backers of the favorite went mad with joy. Henare stood up in his stirrups and urged him on. Tito added unstinted applause, while the chief danced a lively haka on the kerosene boxes. My word that horse could gallop! It was all up with us, and I involuntarily shut my eyesi It was just like stealing candy oh" a kid. Round the home bend came Tarawera, full of running. The rest were hopelessly beaten. Then Stalker had a brain wave. Rushing down the straight, he yelled, "Ride him into the swamp, Molloy. For heaven's sake, ride him into the blanky swamp." With a desperate, almost superhuman, ■tug, Molloy reefed Tarawera's head round, and the pair of them went floundering into the raupo and water. Then hell wns let loose. The chief fell off his perch, and Henare, digging the spurs into his prad in the excitement of the moment, was sent a pearler. Maoris yelled, wahines screamed, dogs yelped, and the hacks in the enclosure stampeded. Casey had the buggy round in a flash, and pulling Molloy out of the swamp, we made record time for home. Those of the Maoris who followed us on foot were easily kept off with sticks, and so we escaped. Stalker never mentions the Raupo Flat races now, but the boss of the Pungatawa pub often wonders why we were in such a hurry home that wo didn't stop to have a drink with him.'