OUR SPORTING PAGE

Taranaki Daily News, 15 December 1922, Page 7 (Supplement)

OUR SPORTING PAGE

(Contributed, by

“Moturoa.”

CHRISTMAS CRACKERS. PERSONAL AND OTHERWISE. LONG SPAN. (By “Moturoa”) There are more ways of losing one’s coin than by backing horses, as a great, big shrewdie once found out in a pub at Marton. The genial “Sammy” Gibbins, of Oratress and ’Frisco fame, kept the hotel, and what he didn’t know about jokes wasn’t worth remembering. There were some half-dozen in the band, and, between drinks, the talk was chiefly of equine and athletic feats. One fellow knew a horse that had jumped ever so many feet, and another knew a runner who “broke ten.” Some more drinks, and the topic switched on to boxers and boxing. Our big friend from the country reckoned he had a bigger chest expansion than Jack Johnson, while, for all round measurements, he could make Jess Willard look like an inmate of Tiny Town. From finger-tip to finger-tip he could span umpteen feet (I forgot the exact measurement) upon the wall, and, with withering scorn, he offered to “span” anyone in the company for a quid —or drinks. To the surprise of everybody “Sammy” Gibbons took him on. We tried to dissuade Sammy, but he would not be deterred. (Tt looked like taking candy off a kid!) The big fellow breasted the wall, his left hand touching the edge of the bar door, while his right shot out to a surprising distance in the opposite direction. “There,” he said, as we marked the limit, “beat that!” Sammy—fat, little Sammy—then stood up, and we roared as he solemnly breasted the wall, and proceeded to extend his arms—he didn’t measure within two feet of the big man. “Ha! ha! Beat you easily!” laughed the giant, “Come on; fill ’em up!” But Sammy was not so sure that he was beaten. “How do you make that out?” he asked in mock surprise. “Why, the tip of my finger was right out there,” expostulated the big fellow, pointing to the mark. “Poof! That’s nothing,” replied Sammy with a laugh, “the tip of my index finger was amputated in Wellington hospital years ago. I reckon I beat you by over a hundred miles’” He exhibited the forefinger with the missing joint, and the crowd unanimously decided that the drinks were on the long chap. HIS FAVORITE FLOWER. Th? “up” mail was just running past Mokoia when an elderly gent in the opposite spat commenced a tiresome rigmarole about the various kinds of flowers, and their symbols. Now, botany was never a favorite subject of mine, I and, to tell you the truth. T was beginning to get the ear ache with the old gent’s incessant chatter. “My favorite flower,” he said, “is the rose-y-the emblem of England.” I gazed furiously at the passing farms, and took no notice. “The thistle.” ho continued, “represents Bonnie Scotland.” Receiving no answer he went on, “the shamrock stands for the Green Isle, and the leek for wee Wales.” He gazed at me thoughtfully, but still I refused to bite. Stung by my lack of interest, possibly, he began a tirade against those much-to-be-pitied persons who had no soul above horseracing and the evils of this world, and who went through life blind and regardless of the beauties of nature. Still no reply, tnit movements in various parts of the carriage indicated that several passengers were preparing to alight at Hawera, the environs of which were now in sight. “Have you no favorite flower, my friend?” he asked me pointedly. his beady eyes shining like pinpoints, “no flower that you can call your own?” “Yes,” I replied, springing to my feet as the train pulled up. “my favorite is hops, and I’m going across to the Railway Hotel opposite to buy some!” BREAKING THE RECORD. Nowadays one is used to reading of long-distance ’plane flights, long-dis-tance balloon races, long-distance club swinging, long-distance piano thumping, and other things, but the palm must surely go to the Feilding trainer, who. when North-East won the Winter Cup for him in 1909, was reputed to have sung for four days and as many nights without stopping. In fact, it wae reported that he might have been singing yet if a. brother trainer had not hit him with a hottie to prevent him from dying of starvation. I had often, heard of this chap, but it wasn’t until some years later that I met him in the flesh, and really tasted his qualities. Again it was in Christchurch, and on the evening of the first day’s races about forty good sports—trainers and jockeys mostly—were gathered round the piano, and were indulging in a little community singing, though the proprietor of the pubbery didn’t call it that at the time. After everyone had had a fling, the hero of this story (who had only sung eleven songs that evening) sat down at the piano, and, looking as if he meant business, remarked, “Now I’ll give you a few decent songs!” I liked his “few.” We struck about fourteen, and then began to tire. Somebody suggested a wholesale retreat, and one-by-one we crept from the room, leaving his noble in sole command. At the conclusion of the next song, not getting the customary applause, he gazed round —and found he was singing to himself. “Well, they’re a lot of igrnorant blankets” he muttered, disgusted, and the silence was broken by shouts of laughter as the audience broke and clattered down the stairs, bound for the fresh air—and peace! * * DO HORSES KNOW? “Banjo” Patterson once turned outsome pretty verses on the above question. and ft humane sport recalled the lines to a trio of good confreres at the Levin meeting the other day. instancing the reluctance of the unfit -Amytha" to enter the course to contest the Cup—an impossible task under his present condition. Then the talk Irifted on to lighter topics, and Ted Penman staked his bottom dollar on old Detroit, the

most sagacious equine in the world. “You know that leg that always troubled him?” he asked. Yes, we knew it well. “I’ve only got to pick up the bottle of veterinary liniment, and the old horse holds up his leg straight away,” he averred. “Poof, that’s nothing,” said another trainer, “I have te hide the papers from my horse. The other day I caught him reading the News, and when he saw that Joe Henrys had given him top-weight at Stratford he went right off his tucker!'’ Then the champion liar let himself go. “My old horse,” he said, “has travelled, round to the meetings so much that he knows every town on this coast. Why, when I was coming down to this meeting, I simply told the old fellow, and making myself as comfortable as possible in the horse box, went to sleep. Lye and bye the old horse takes a peep out, and recognising Levin, wakes me up—and here we «/■«!” A STRONG PULLER. Henare Armstrong was a jodkster that could ba depended upon to do as he was told and there was no better horseman in the province at “stopping” a horse that was “not wanted.” Therefore “The Boss” was quite easy in his mind when he had secured Henare to ride Battler in the little £lOO open race at Whenuakura. Battler was in need of a “pipe-opener” in public, but victory meant a solid penalty in the big Cup race at Wanganui, and that would prove fatal to the big coup which was to he brought off the following week. Battler was a hard horse to hold, but Henare’s instructions were to “pull his bloomin’ head off,” and to “stop” him at all costs. Henare said he would do his best. Battler was early in the lead, but approaching the home bend Henare took a reef in the reins, and began to see-saw at the horse’s head. For a few strides Battler was restrained, and the field closed up, but over the last furlong Battler, pulling like a Clydesdale, forged ahead and won by half-a-length. The Boss was white with rage, and in the seclusion j of the stall vented his wrath upon Henare. "ion darned fool,” he roared “didn’t I tell you he wasn’t to win?” “Py corry, you did, Puss,” replied Henare wiping the sweat from his face, “you told me all right, but next time you te plurry fool if you don’t tell te horse as well!” MISSED AGAIN. “No luck,” muttered The Pimp, as he dusted his nicely creased trousers, and carefully felt his back. “If it rained sovereigns,” he soliloquised, “I’d be unlucky enough to be the only one one in the gang with boxing gloves on.” Thp Pimp had been after a job, but once again his services had been declined —forcibly and without thanks. He stroked his chin, where the hair was just beginning to bristle, and the. average judge would not have .been far wrong if he had picked him for a youth of about twenty (hard) winters. “He threatened to sool the dog on to me,” he went on, indicating a big training establishment across the road, “and I i put up a good tale, too. j always heard he was a hard man, but what the I diggings he should go crook for, and i use bad language and big boots on me, • goodness knows! He asked me if I had ever worked in stables. I told him ten years with Diek Mason. Then he want, ed to now if I could handle yearlings, I told him I was four years at Bushy ■ Park and seven at Koatanui. Then a I queer twinkle came into his eyes, and, | by the rusty sound his brain-box was making I could see he was doing a little mental arithmetic. He looked grim then, and asked if I hadn’t worked anywhere else in my time. I was just beginning to tell him about the eleven years I put in with Ormond when he rushed in and planted his goal-kicker fair on the seat of my pants, and I escaping from his dogs. “Some blighter’? —but. with loud laughter we left him grumbling. * * * * « FIFTY-FIFTY. They tell the yarn of a Taranaki trainer, who, on a trip to Auckland, secured a suit of clothes from a Jew named Ike—a seemingly impossible tale, but nevertheless true. Now, our friend was supposed to call round with the necessary cash after so-and-so had won the big handicap, but the prad “missed,” and in the hurry and bustle of catching the steamer at Onegunga he eonvientlv forgot his promise. Months rolled on, and although Ike made regular demands for his money, the sum remained unpaid. Ike began to see that he had bought “a gold brick,” or . something less satisfactory, and, noticing so-and-so’s name amongst the Cup acceptances, he decided to interview the trainer in person, and get satisfaction. The pair «met at Ellerslie. “Ha ho,” said Ike, “now I’ve caught you! ■ Vat aboud that fiver you owe me?” • •’Fiver!” replied the trainer, with a ; pained expression, “where would T get a fiver?” “Veil, veil, veil,” said Ike. “I vill take half. I vill knock off two-pound-ten. Civ’ me two-pound-ten. and ve vill call it quits.” Such a touching appeal was too much for our friend. Grasping Ike’s hand, he said, with tears in his eyes, “No, no Ike, you are too . good. I cannot allow you to have all the generosity on your part! You will knock off half? Well. I will do the fair tning, and knock off the other half — we’re square! ” * * * * * IN MONEY OR KIND. We are all familiar with the swagger, who, when asked how far it was to a certain township, replied. “One-two-ihree; yes, three pubs further on!” But when it comes to describing the extent of one’s losses at a race meeting even more descriptive terms arc often used. Brown says that he “did a motzer”; ' Smith “his shirt”: Jones “got a sound thrashing”: Murphv “was sent back to work”: Flossie “lost her undergar- 1 ments”: and Billjim “dropped his bundle—or his parcel.” But the Maori caps the lot. Chatting with old Sam Woon after a particularly teasing dav at the Wanganui races. T inquired how they i treated him. “Lost eight hales, my 1 lad.” purred the old man in his quiet I style, “eight bales of wool!” As wool | was worth about Cl2 a hale at the time I could with him I 'had lost a bale myself!

IT WAS IT. Tossing for drinks is still a favorite pastime with habitues of the bar. and it is wonderful the carelessness which generally characterises such mild gambles. Brown, more or less “steamed up,” draws a coin from his pocket; tosses it skywards; and after a couple of misses, catches it and slams it partly under his grimy palm upon the counter. “What’s that for drinks?” he bellows. Ilia mate, a chap with a cold in the head, calls something that sounds like “Ned.” “What?” roars Brown, withdrawing his covering hand a trifle. “Ned,” reiterates his opponent. “Ned! What’s that?” shouts Brown, now exposing nearly one half of the deciding coin. “Ned! Ned,” shrieks the other, pointing to the coin, “Ned! Ned! that’s it!” It was a head all right. And Brown shouted. ***** FRIGHTFUL! It was a hot, summery Sunday morning, and the congregation, with one exception, was doing its darndest to keep awake, and to make some show of interest in what the very young (and very earnest) parson was droning from the pulpit. The one exception was a stout, florid gentleman, who, having partaken of too much liquid refreshment. had wandered into the sacred precincts, and having taken his seat in a prominent place, promptly lapsed into slumber. His snores were somewhat disconcerting, not only to the flies which buzzed about his bald head, but to those of the congregation who were awake. At last the sermon was finished, and the clerk posted the number of the hymn, “134.” Hymn books were opened, and there was a shuffling of feet. The inebriated one yawned, stretched himself. and. opening one bleary eye, surveyed the number. “Blime,” he said, quite loudly, “only three runners in this race! ”■ HE CRACKED IT. Left at the post, and beaten by a head! Is there anything more provoking in the realms of sport ? Yet, how 'often have we missed “a. hatful” under such circs! This is what the average sportsman calls “stiffness,” hut. as Browning says, “When the goas smile adversity grows a winning fight,” and there is not a mother’s son of us that does not. look forward hopefully to a break in the run of “outs,” or in other words, “to crack it” for a win. Met cheery Mick King at Waverley on Labor Day. He was up there with Wapping, ami the old chestnut was goiniz so well that Mick voted him unbeatable. But ■Mick’s bad luck is proverbial, and the old horse could only finish second. It was only when the winners returned to the birdcage that I noticed that Mick’s arm was in a sling, and while commiserating with the Feilding trainer on his “stiffness” I inquired what wa« wrong with his “flipper.” “Oh, just a cracked elbow,” replied Mick laconically, “a horse tried its new boots on me, and here am T—poor Philgarlic—as stiff as a crutch. Always trying t<> crack it for a win. and the only thing T can crack is my arm! But,” he added with a ely grin. “I can -still sigi. a cheque as well with my left as with my right!” Knowing the chronic state of Mick’s banking account I said nothing, but “sawed wood.” ***** THE WRONG DOPE. Blank was a chemist who had a reputation for possessing the right stimulant to make horses go fast, and naturally his services (and his drugs) were in good demand. Unfortunately for his patrons Blank was a big punter, and more than once the weight of his commission had materially reduced the dividend. Dash, the well-known trainer, had a horse entered in the mile-and-a-quarter Cup race at (say) Waverley, and in the sprint (six furlongs) at the same place. Dash wanted the dope badly, but he didn’t feel inclined to let the pill-builder into his confidence. So he went to him and explained that he was starting Deat Beat in the six furlongs race, and that he wanted some “hurry-up” to make victory certain. Blank was only too willing to oblige, and the mysterious compound was duly dispensed and handed over. Blank . was not going to the races, but he eni trusted to a friend a tidy roll to be | invested on Dead Beat in the Flying, i Of course he did not start, but, duly doped, he was saddled up for the Cup. When the tapes lifted Deat Beat dashed to the front, and passing the stand was well clear of the opposition, and galloping in slashing style. Dash grinned loudly and wondered what the chemist would say when he saw how he had been “double-crossed.” But the grin did not last long, for Dead Beat collapsed like a pricked balloon four furlongs from home, and eventually finished absolutely last. Dash began to have suspicions of that dope. IJad the chemist got one on to him? Ho would see about, it when he I got back that night. He did! The j dope merchant was in the act of check- j ing the roll which had been returned - to him. when Dash rushed in. “You (adjective) old sinner,” hi* began, “you put m? crook to-day didn’t you—.” j “Not on your life.” replied the chemist, ' pocketing his notes, “you put yourself crook, you said you were starting Dead i Beat in the sprint., and, of course, I I gave you the six furlongs dope. Now, if you luid told me you were starting in the mile-and-a-quarter—,” but Dash . had flown. ;

DAD, THE ARTIST. The Reverend MoKiljoy was visiting the Longfaces, and Pa * Longface, Ma Longface and the reverend gentleman were discussing the evils of racing and gambling—over the usual cup of tea. Pa Longface, with smug hypocrisy, was particularly trenchant in his denunciation of sport, while Ma and Mr. McKil--1 joy nodded and applauded sympatheticI ally. Then enter little Willie Longface, with his .slate and pencil, the elate j hearing some crude drawings. “What a j bright little cheru-b,” gurgled his reveri once, “and can he draw?” Willie shook j bis head. “Come now,” coaxed his ouestioner, “cannot you draw cats —and ’ dogs— and. er—horses?” At the mention I* of horses Willie’s face lit. up. “No, I can’t draw horses,” ho lisped, “but father can. Father drew Rational in the sweep at the office, didn’t you, Father?” NOT REQUIRED. Many years ago there frequented a billiard saloon not a hundred miles from Urenui a Maori who was some artist with the cue, and the tales of his prowess on the green cloth still hang about the district. An Auckland commercial traveller happened along by the «(*oach one morning, and, having completed his business in the township, j looked around for some means of fill- | ing in time until the coach returned to Waifara. Now, this 0. T. fancied himself quite a lot at billiards, and seeing l the saloon open, went across, and in the absence of the proprietor, amused himself 'by idly knocking the balls about. After a while a Maori, clad in a bundle of rags, and looking as tired as a really tired native can look, dropped into the saloon, and sprawled upon the seat by the wall. “Care for a game?” chal--1 leuged the traveller, condescendingly, i “(»h. I dunno,” drawled the Maori, i “p’haps 1 make it te lose. T not got te | shillin’.” “Oh, never mind about paying,” j replied the visitor, “come on, I’ll break i ’em up.” which he did, leaving both in ! play. The Maori slouched to tlie cue rack, picked out “a bat” with studied carelessness, and started. In off the , red; in off the white. Three cannons, and in off the red again, and again, and j i again—2o up. Then he varied it with j I “long jennys,” hazards, kiss cannons, j j and hurdle shots. Fifty appeared. And | I then more hazards, and the perspiring j commercial flew from'poeket to pocket. ! “scouting” for his life. Eighty was up. i and the Maori plodded nonchalantly i along—then the century was reached, j the score reading 100—0. The travel- i lor threw a shilling on the table, and j his cue in the rack. Picking up his coat I and sample bag, he turned and address- { j ed the victor:—“When T asked you to j have a game you said you didn’t have ! 'the shillin.’ Well, as long as you play mues like mi* vou wil] neve" need the (adjective) shillin, Goodbye,” and he I left. * « * * * : THE GIRLS’ FAVORITE. ! There is an apprentice. L. Pine. Whose seat in the saddle is fine. The girls nn the stand j , Say he is just grand. LHis riding is simply divine. ’

THE STRAIGHT TIP. Now, when you have money to stake, On Income a bet you should make. He looks pretty fit, And, my word, he can flit, You pan bet, if you Put, vou will Take. ONE FOR HAWERA. No mention of Egmont’s fine course, Is complete without Alfred A. Monse. He twists up the strainers. And shakes up the trainers. But keeps things A.l, for the horee«