OUR SPORTING PAGE

Taranaki Daily News, 16 December 1921, Page 7 (Supplement)

OUR SPORTING PAGE

(Contributed by “Moturoa.”) Story, “The Moral,” the Race for the Whenuakura Cup. Best Sporting Incident Competition.—Prize of a guinea divided between “The Cutter,” Mokau, and “The Napper,” Manaia. More Christmas Crackers.

“THE MORAL." THE RACE FOR THE WHENUAKURA .CUP, . . (By “Moturoa-.”) If you. care to take the trouble to look up the papers of the time you will See that all, without exception, tipped War Horse to win the Cup at Whenuakura. The Sporting Times considered that he was in 81bs too light. The Chronicle reckoned that Jones, who trained War Horse, knew too much for the other mentors. The Advocate praised the rider, Smith; and the Star’s sporting scribe, after lauding the whole outfit to the stars, guaranteed that he would go to work if War Horse was beaten. The man-in-the-street voted it a “moral.”

War Horse was a big, raking black gelding, rising five, by a Derby winner, out of a sister to a Melbourne Cup winner; herself the best three-year-old filly of her year; and as regards breeding, War Horse was “born in the purple.” Brown, who owned War Horse, was a bi# “squattah,” and, like most people overloaded with the wealth of the world, appeared to be able to do nothing wrong. Added to this, War Horse was just fresh from victories at Opunake and Waitara, and was in the pink of condition. Here was a “moral” indeed!

War Horse’s likely opponents were Outcast (a stable mate), The Snifter, Green Lady, Mad Harry and The Clown. Of these Outcast was easily the best, but she was no match for War Horse, whom Jones had tried to be 141bs-better over the Cup distance. The Snifter was touched in the wind, and Green Lady was always more or less sore at this time of the year. Mad Harry and The Clown had never run over the distance. In fact, the latter had failed to “get” a mile and a quarter at Opunake, and could have no show over twelve furlongs.

Naturally, War Horse was a hot favorite, “evens” straight out being the best price offered about him. Outcast was at “4’s,” and the rest drifted from “6’s” to “TZ’s.” Coupled with anything that had a chance in the Flying, War Horse was quoted at “10’s” and “12’s.” It looked like a case of putting in ana taking out! As the day drew near, those scribes who rose with the lark (or the Big Ben, to be exact), and went up to the track, boosted up War Horse’s thrilling gallops; and other scribblers, who preferred the cosy warmth of the blankets to the cold, bleak racecourse air at 4 a.m., made a re-hash of the early birds’ pars, and “used their heads” for the rest. Watches were broken, more or less, and Gaff, the local repair man, was working day and night fixing ’em up. It looked to be all over bar shouting, and War Horse went down to “6 to 4 on.” Now this yarn isn’t the yarn of the horse that ran to save its owner from bankruptcy. Nor was the jockey “got at,” or the horse “nobbled.” Neither did the trainer’s daughter (at the last moment) take the jockey’s place (fill the breech or the breeches, as it were); and ride the horse to victory in approved picture drama fashion. No; Brown was rich heyond the dreams of avarice. Smith never put a man “crook” in his life. Jones didn’t have a daughter. He wasn't married, anyhow. (Keep seated, kind reader!)

It is a strange thing that the more money a man gets the keener he is after money, and the. “harder” he becomes in his dealings with (or to) other men. Brown had done some dirty things .in his time, and .wasn’t ashamed of it. The honor and glory of-.winning races didn’t appeal to him nearly; so rquch as working a point, on. to somebody else.- As for the paltry few pounds attached to the Whenuakura Cup, .poof! Brown didn’t .care tuppence. With Smith, a jockey who “did as he was told, and Jones, a trainer who was “with the boss, boots and all,” they made a formidable trio,’ and when they put their heads together anything might happen. It was the boss’s idea to upset the public and the sporting wiseacres, and ■incidentally line their own pockets with the bookies’ good, hard cash. And a. neat little “joke” was hatched. The morning of the races broke bright and clear, and the air was calm and crisp, with just a slight puff from the mountain. The course was in perfect order, for Whenuakura. and everything appeared ideal for racing. There was a big crowd there, and the bookmakers were busy early writing “War Horse”— now “7 to 4 on,” and the War Horse— Bruiser: “double” was backed down to “9’s.” Yet, all . the time, somebody was quietly backing Outcast at “4’s,” and the Outcast—Bruiser “double” at “20’s. ’

Racing opened with the Maiden, which fell to a “2 to 1” favorite, and helped to put the crowd in a good humor. The Farmers’ Plate was a “turn up” for the “books.” Then came the Flying, which Bruiser, a “3 to 1” favorite, won easily from a big field. The Hurdles went to a heavily backed Hawera horse, and then came the piece de resistance of the day—the Cup. When the numbers were hoisted it was seen that there were five runners, The Clown having been withdrawn. War Horse had shortened to “2 to 1 on,” and the public still poured in their money. Outcast, who found some mysterious backers, held her place at “4’s,” and tempting odds were offered against the others.

The weighing bell was ringing as a certain little gathering broke up, and three persons emerged from ar Horse s stall. They were Brown, Jones and Smith, and’ their little plot was now to stand the test. Possibly the reader will imagine that Smith had agreed-to pull War Horse up, or to fall off, or ride for a spill. Not on your life, there was nothing so clumsy as that about the tricky trio. They chqse the weightiu°,glin<T route, which was infinitely easier, “and less likely of detection Smith was to go to scale with a lead bag weighing lOlbs. which would be “overlooked” when the horse was saddled up. That was all! And no matter whether War Horse won or not, the result would be the same. Smith wouldn’t be able w draw the weight, au«J the

A FLYING START. HOW A DOUBLE WAS WON. (G. H. Sisley, Bristol Road.) Mac was starter for a country club and had a leg in a decent sized double, but the secoml leg was a mad-headed brute who wanted things all his own wav before he would move, so when the field lined up he went cranky. Mac ordered the Kid aboard to walk the horse back a distance. “Shall I walk him up now ?” z cried the Kid. as he saM the other horses in line. “Walk up, be d L” veiled Mae. “I have that prad going for a double. Gallop up behind and if you don’t make every post a winner you are on the father of a kick in that’part of your anatomy nearest the saddle!” Needless to say, the prad romped home, and Mac drew his wad, but, sad to relate, a new starter was operating the barrier at the next meet-

horse would be disqualified. The tricky trio, would bear “the blow” with well affected “dismay,” and would have the sympathy of all. Smith was cheered lustily as he wended his way to the weighing room, and more than one admirer clapped him heartily on the back, and wished hjm “good luck.” Smith smiled back at them, and went ahead. In the weighing room, the same enthusiasm awaited him. “Right,” said Casey, the Clerk of the Scales, “you’ll beat 'em all to-day, lad, won’t you?” “You bet I will,” rejoined Smith, with a careless laugh. And still the bookies yelled: “Ta-a-ke 2 to 1 this here fav’rite! Ta-a-ke 2 to 1 War Horse!” Green Lady went first, moving “short.” Then came The Snifter, and. Outcast, the latter striding out best. Mad Harry tore down the straight, keeping his diminutive jockey busy the while. Then came War Horse. “Oh! the beauty!” screamed a woman on the stand, and the crowd’s excitement welled up and poured over. Cheer after cheer went up as the black demon swept by, fighting to do better, and covering the springy turf with long, low, sweeping strides. Here was “the moral of morals” —nothing surer!

There was little delay at the post, the five runners moving off in line at the first fall of the flag. Outcast was quickest to find her feet, but was steadied, and as they ran past the stand Mad Hary was in front, with Outcast. War Horse and The Snifter next, and Green Lady last. The favorite was pulling double, and cries went up to “let him go.” Six -furlongs from home Mad Harry began to come back to his field,, and at the five Outcast shot to the front, followed by War Horse, and the crowd on the grandstand simply rocked. Outcast was being ridden as they turned for home, and a riiighty shout went up from a thousand throats: “War Horse wins! War Horse! War Horse!” The black muzzle was in front now, and Smith, who was dead licked, could not restrain his mount any longer. War Horse shot to the front, and amidst the wildest enthusiasm went on and won by four lengths. Outcast was an easy second, three lengths in front of The Snifter, with Mad Harry and Green Lady “down the course.” Ringing cheers greeted the winner on returning to scale, and Smith repeatedly lifted his cap. Jones wore a forced smile as he went to take his horse, and Brown, who was in the centre of a cheering mob, ‘ waved his hat frantically and boisterously accepted the handshakes and congratulations of his friends. It was a memorable scene, and for the moment Smith almost wished he had that blessed lead bag with him. He entered the weighing room. Tn a few moments Smith reappeared, his face wearing a stunned expression. Jones glanced sharply at him, and then at Brown. The latter’s face grew hard, but he said nothing, and followed the retreating horses. Tt was, as the. scribes and the public had said all along, a moral! A bookmaker’s runner rushed past, shouting, “Pa-ay the winner! Pa-ay War Horse!” Late that evening three men sat round a bottle in Brown’s sanctum. They were Brown, Jones and Smith. Their conversation was of the Cup, and its unexpected climax —as far as they were concerned. It was late, and the sporting scribes had written up their “I-told-you-so” pars, and like ail good people had retired to rest. But still the tricky trio sat on, talking and drinking. Then a tap came at the door, and in answer to Brown’s “Come in”—-Casey entered. For a moment Casey surveyed the trio blankly, and then made as if to retreat precipitately. “Sit down!” commanded Brown. Casey sat down. “Have a drink?” said Brown. Casey extended a shaky hand to the bottle, and spilled some liquor into a glass, and some on the floor. He drank up, and then let Jjis eyes roam round the walls, littered with * racing pictures. “Want to see me?” inquired Brown curtly. “Well, .yes, I did,” replied Casey, “but I didn’t -know you had company.” “Oh! Hang the company,” said Brown, “if you ve got anything to say, just spit it out! Smith' had a drink, and Jones followed suit. “Well,” began Casey, hesitatingly, “I came to tell you how much you owe me over that race to-day.” He looked up to see what impression he had made on his audience, but their faces were imperturbable. “I know very well,” he continued, “that you had a lot of money about your black horse to-day. and 1 don’t mind telling you that, acting-on Smith’s tip. T had lewquid on him myself.” “Well,” ex - claimed frown, “what about it?” ‘The fact of the matter is.” and Casey again hesitated, “War Horse was lOlbs ‘shy when Smith weighed in, but for y oul sake I didn’t say anything!” “You d— —d scoundrel!” roared Brown, rising and grabbing the bottle, “take that! and there was a crash of glass, and Casey fell to the floor. Jones and Smith joined the melee, and what was left of Casey was thrown on to the highway, l-ater he managed to crawl away to safety, and as he rubbed his sore head, and felt his many other bruises he soliloquised: “Well, it beats me! That’s what one gets for doing a <rood turn. But I never thought that gang were such sticklers for honesty m matters connected with the Turf!

“NO ACCOUNT.” A TALE OF THE MOKAU, (“Cutter,” Mokau.) He bore the stamp of honesty on his face, and the mud of Taumatamaire on his trousers, as he tramped behind a thick cloud that could only be produced by the artic frosts or Awakino whiskey. '‘What’s the trouble,” he asked of the brewery drummer, who had stopped the cloud at the front door of the boarding house, and was still fighting for breath. The gent who used the bosses’ trademark to round off his love letters, let him pass, and pointed silently to a thin wreath of smoke that percolated through a grating over the road. is no story of arson and murder, even Sleuthhound O’Day, of the nightwatch, would have elicited from the corkscrew that the smoke came from the bacon and eggs being prepared for the delectation of McFillem, who was -stopping the night on his way to New Plymouth because he had lacked both money and the gift of story telling when it was most needed.

“Two more in and its fixed,” said the fat man holding up the bedroom jug of water, and killing the whiskey within an inch of the brim without spilling a drop—a trick that can only be acquired by years of active practice in the wetdry districts of Maoriland. “I’m in,” said the visitor, more by instinct than thirst, and pushed himself alongside of the only horse that is in the stud-book of the King Country. “A fiver it costs you,” said the Scotchman, who said he was solely responsible for the circulation of a popular weekly. He staggered the visitor for a fraction of a minute, but the “Painkiller of Pio Pio” brought him to and he dug up a dirty, crinkly, creased cheque from his trouser pocket.

“All me blinkin earnings for the winter,” he said as he extracted the change from the pool. He waited anxiously while the Goddess chance decided who would pay McFillem’s fine, and incidentally reap the not inconsiderable profit from the “fiver in.”< He lost—but •stayed on to enjoy the refreshments. Coming back next week, I met the Scotchman, and he hailed me. “You remember the bloke with the mud on his trousers?” I said I did. “Well, this cove at the Bank of New Zealand sums him up alright,” he said, producing ■from his trouser pocket a dirty crinkly creased cheque with one corner neatly turned up, and bearing the simple announcement, “No account!” WARRIGAL RAFFLED. HOW HONI RAISED THE WIND. (By “The Napper,” Manaia.) It was a good many years ago now. Honi had blown along to the township, bent on enjoying himself at the tangi iit progress near by. He left his horse at the stables, and was surprised to see a dead animal in one of the stalls. “Who that feller, eh?” he asked of the ostler. “Oh, he’s Warrigal that won all the big money in Taranaki.” “That’s the bad thing,’anyhow,” remarked Honi, who walked away. Then Honi turned round, and said: “I say, suppose I buy Warrigal for ti quid?” Oh, yes, the carcase had to be buried anyhow, and a pound was that much to the good. But what was Honi’s idea in buying Warrigal’s remains? That was a question that interested all the stable hands. Honi reached the pah, and told all the natives he, was the owner of the famous Warrigal. They crowded around him and told him he was the great rangitira to own such a valuable horse. “I tell you what I do,” said the accommodating Honi. “Suppose I raffle him for ti pound ti time. Eh?” Yes, that was a great idea, and so Honi was soon busily engaged in taking in the pounds which were freely offering. He sold 132, and then a dip into a hat brought out the lucky number 113. “Where I get him?” asked the lucky Maori. “Up ti stable at Opunake,” replied Honi. Half an hour later there came returning a dejected looking native. Honi went out to meet him. “Where ti hoihoi?” asked Honi. “He komati!” “Py korry, that’s no good,” said Honi, “You ti wery bad luck. Here I give you back ti quid!” And then Honi drew one note out of tlie pile, gave it to his compatriot, and put the other 131 carefully away. He had raised the wind, and everyone was satisfied. True story. A MORAL THAT FAILED. (C. H. Stephenson, Fitzroy.) A Southern owner had a prad that he thought might do something in the jumping line, and accordingly he took him well away from home, and entered him for a good North Island race. He reckoned his moke a moral, but for the fact that one of the best known jumpers in the land was also a starter. Somehow or other he came to the conclusion that this prad was only out for a “run.-' Accordingly, he approached the owner and found his surmise to be correct. The two owners then agreed to put the good old General Public on the “crack,” and back the dark horse themselves. Just before the race a well-known local sport, meeting the owner of the non- , trier, asked him of his horse’s chances “A stone moral,” came the reply, and away went the unsuspecting sport, and “did in” a wad on the owner’s tip. At the last hurdle the jockey on the nontrier saw that the moral was beaten, and thinking to saVe the stake for the owner urged his mount forward and won. This, however, was not to the owner’s liking, and he was just giving the jockey a tongue lashing when up came the sport. “Put it here, old man; I did in a wad on him!” What the reply was I shall not relate! HOW SHELA WON. (A. M. Standish, Tarata.) I can barely remember the details of a racing yarn which my father used to relate concerning a mare of my grandfather’s called Shela. The event occurred at the first Stratford race meeting in diabolical weather, as a drizzling rain was falling and had been for two days previously. Shela had been entered for a race, but unfortunately the trainer, who was decidedly the worse for drink, had neglected to ‘obtain the services of a jockey. At the last moment he discovered’ what had happened, and it was too late to scratch the horse for the event she had to run. No one else would act as a jockey, so the trainer made the best of a bad job, and went himself. Up went the barrier, and away went the horses, the unfortunate trainer trying to hang on as best he could and’ making the atmosphere a very deep blue. He had a walk-over win, and, I believe, established a record which was not beaten for many years—and he was dead drunk, rode on a slushy track, and was a stone over.weight i