Grey Timothy/Chapter 16

Goodwood is glorious by tradition and in reality.

High above the country perched the ridge of rolling hills, with the clear waters of the Solent shimmering in the distance on the one hand, and the stretch of yellow cornfield and dark-green woods on the other; it has no counterpart in the world.

So thought Brian, looking across the valley. He turned to the young doctor at his side.

“Ernest,” he said soberly, “this has Flemington whipped.”

“Impossible,” replied Ernest ironically. “Flemington and Sydney Harbour are the two glories of Australia” Brian looked at his watch, and Ernest eyed him suspiciously.

“Will you explain why you arrive on the course two hours before the first race, and examine your watch every ten minutes?” he asked.

Brian went red.

“I—I—have I?” he stammered. “The fact is, I wanted to see the course before the people arrived, and—I’m getting hungry.”

“Expecting anybody?” asked the innocent doctor.

“Only my cousin—my relations,” responded Brian, with a fine air of unconcern.

“Oh!”

“My uncle very obligingly promised to bring her—them, I mean,” said Brian hastily.

“Oh!” said the doctor again, very politely.

“Now what the devil are you oh-ing about?” demanded the embarrassed Brian. “Nothing remarkable about people coming to Goodwood, is there?”

“Nothing at all,” said the doctor, and changed the subject. “How is the gentleman of the party?”

“Grey Timothy—as fit as a fiddle. By the way, Pinlow is here.”

“He’s got a nerve.”

Brian smiled faintly.

“Oh, he’s got nerve all right—he’ll want it.”

“I suppose your horse will win?”

Brian nodded.

“So far as anything in racing can be certain,” he said, “he is a certainty.”

An attendant approached them—they were standing by the rails in the members’ enclosure.

“A party for you, sir,” he began; but Brian was speeding up the lawn before the man had half delivered his message.

He returned in a few minutes a radiantly happy young man, with the girl, a picture of English beauty in white, a big black hat shading her glowing face.

Mr Callander, detached and ostensibly impartial and non-committal, walked behind. Horace made an uneasy fourth.

Mr Callander unbent so far as to ask questions, and to remark upon the beauties of the view and the warmth of the day. He even ventured a sinful inquiry as to the well-being of Grey Timothy.

Before they went in to lunch, he took his nephew aside.

“Brian,” he said—it was the first time he had ever so addressed the other—“I—er—you might think it remarkable—a business man and all that sort of thing”

Brian waited patiently.

“I, of course, do not hold with betting: I think that it is the ruin of—er—the race—the human race, of course,” he added, lest he should be suspected of harbouring protective designs upon a race of less noble quality. “Nevertheless,” he went on, “I feel that on this occasion—a very rare and remarkable occasion—and since it is your horse”

“Quite,” said the understanding Brian. “How much shall I put on for you?”

“Would fifty pounds be too much?” asked Mr Callander dubiously.

“I dare say the ring will bear up,” said Brian, and was moving off to the rails that separated Tattersall’s from the members’ enclosure.

“Stop a moment,” said Mr Callander, putting his hand to his breast pocket; “I haven’t given you the money.”

“That will keep,” said Brian, with a smile. “So long as you settle next Monday.”

“But,” expostulated the puzzled gentleman, “won’t it be necessary to put it into writing?”

Laughingly Brian explained the business of betting. It was a game where people trusted one another, the one profession where a man’s word was his bond, where there were no written agreements or contracts.

Mr Callander was more mystified than ever. Throughout the lunch—Mr Colter joined them—he maintained a thoughtful silence. Towards the end of the meal he turned to the trainer, who sat by his side.

“Racing is a remarkable pastime,” he said, and that was all he said. It was enough, however, to indicate a change in his point of view.

After the lunch was over Colter excused himself. He had the responsibility of putting the finishing touches to the horses.

“I will join you soon,” said Brian, dropping his voice. “Pinlow is here.”

“Have you seen the other rascal?”

“Smith?—no, he is not on the course so far as I know. The horse is all right?”

Mr Colter nodded.

“He is guarded as though he were a crown jewel,” he said.

Brian took his party to the seats on the members’ stand that he had reserved for them, and then with an apology left them. He passed down the gentle slope that leads to the paddock and had hardly entered the enclosure when he came face to face with Lord Pinlow.

They eyed each other warily as they stood momentarily confronted.

Brian, with a little curl of his lip, which was half smile, half contempt, would have stepped to one side but Pinlow stopped him.

“Can you give me a minute, Pallard?” he asked coolly.

“I can give you two,” said the young man, looking him straight in the eye.

“Come this way; we shan’t be overheard,” said the other, and led the way to an unfrequented corner of the paddock.

“Now look here, Pallard,” he said with an assumption of heartiness, “I want you to forget all that is past; you’re a sportsman and we are both men of the world.”

He waited for some response, but Brian was silent.

“I don’t mind telling you that I want your help—I’m in rather a mess over this horse of yours.”

Again his overtures were met with chilly silence.

“I am putting all my cards on the table,” said Pinlow, “and I tell you that I have laid your horse to lose nearly ten thousand.”

“Then you will lose it,” said the calm Mr Pallard, and an angry flush lit the eyes of the other. With an effort he mastered his temper and smiled.

“So I realize,” he said, as he took a case from his pocket and selected a cigarette, “and realizing this, it occurred to me that I might take the bull by the horns—or beard the lion in his den, whichever simile you prefer.”

“Exactly how?”

There was a long pause before Lord Pinlow spoke.

“I want ten thousand pounds,” he said, “and I think you might lend it to me.”

The audacity of the request took away Brian’s breath.

“How much?” he asked incredulously.

“Ten thousand,” said the other; “is it a bet?”

Brian heaved up a big sigh.

“I admire you,” he said, shaking his head. “You are the last word in nerve.”

“Can you lend me the money?”

Brian’s eyes narrowed.

“Not a bob,” he said vulgarly.

Pinlow needed no further evidence of his refusal. He shrugged his shoulders.

“It would pay you,” he said, “even if you did not win this race.”

There was meaning in his tone.

“I shall win it, do not worry,” said Brian cheerfully.

“Don’t be so sure,” growled the other. “You’re a fool not to snatch at the olive branch.”

“I could get the whole olive—tree for half the money,” said the unpenitent Brian.

“You could have had my friendship,” and an ugly smile twisted Pinlow’s face, “and the girl thrown in.”

He had hardly got the words out before he was sorry he spoke. Brian’s face flushed red and white and he took a half-step toward him.

“What do you mean?” he half whispered.

“Oh, everybody knows you’re keen on old Callander’s daughter,” sneered Pinlow.

Again all the self-control of the other was called into play. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets as though to keep them safe.

“When we are not on a race-course,” he said quietly, “I will make you sorry for this—you blackguard!”

Then he turned sharply away and walked to where Grey Timothy was being saddled.

“What is the matter?” asked Colter in alarm. He saw the white face of the other and knew that something had happened.

“Oh, nothing,” said Brian, almost roughly. “Have you saddled ’em?”

“I have saddled them,” said Mr Colter slowly; “but Greenpol is—I hate to take away his character—a perfect little devil this morning. He has kicked one box to pieces, and I dare not let him out in this confounded paddock where there is no ring for the horses to be exercised.”

The saddling bell rang, and the diminutive jockey, who was to ride Grey Timothy, came along, buttoned to the neck in his overcoat. Brian took him aside.

“Now, Giles, you know your orders; you are to lay up with Greenpol to the distance, and when he is done with, come away and win your race.”

The lad touched his cap.

With the seeming reluctance which is peculiar to jockeydom, he removed his coat, revealing the brand-new silk of Pallard’s colours.

“Where is Greenpol, sir?” he asked.

At that moment Mr Colter emerged from one of the boxes leading the other horse and patting his neck as he walked.

There was no doubt that something distressed the handsome bay. He was in a lather of sweat, his eyes rolled threateningly, and it was as much as the boy who rode him could do to keep his seat, as he jumped and bucked his way through the paddock to the alarm of the gaily dressed throng.

Brian and Colter watched the field making its way to the post from the end of the paddock near the members’ enclosure.

“I can’t make out what has come over Greenpol,” said Colter, shaking his head in perplexity; “he’s the nicest little gentleman in the world ordinarily.”

He shook his head again. They made their way to the place where they had left their party.

“I feel awfully guilty leaving you,” said Brian, as he dropped into a seat by the girl’s side.

“You need have no qualms,” said Gladys gaily. “Father has been explaining the psychology of betting.”

He thought he had never seen her look so lovely as she was at that moment. Her cheeks were flushed a delicate pink, her laughing eyes danced with excitement. He saw her in profile, the straight little nose, the full lips, the delicate rounded chin.

“This is a precious prize worth winning,” he thought, and went suddenly red as he realized that he had spoken his thoughts aloud.

“Is it a large prize?” she asked innocently. Something in his eyes half revealed the meaning of his words, and she turned her head quickly.

There was sufficient happening to cover her confusion. The horses were lining up at the post and the ring was a pandemonium. Frantic, gesticulating figures were sending some news from ring to ring.

“They seem to be more than usually upset,” said Brian, putting down his glasses. Then above the babel of sound from the thronged ring rose one shrill voice and Brian stiffened.

The girl looked at him with an anxious face.

“What is wrong?” she asked.

He shook his head, slowly listening.

“I may have been mistaken,” he said.

Again, clear above the roar of voices came the tremulous falsetto of Little Darby, that least musical of bookmakers.

“Eight to one Grey Timothy!”

Now, Grey Timothy had been a tight five to two favourite, and horses do not sag from five to two to eight to one, unless there is something radically wrong.

Colter had heard the cry earlier and had slipped across the lawn to the railings which separated Tattersall’s. He was on the way back when Brian heard for himself the disquieting betting.

“What has happened?” he asked, as the trainer came up.

“I can’t tell, except that for some reason or other the ring has begun to knock Timothy. I have just seen Slown, and he tells me that the story is that Timothy isn’t all right.”

Slown was the greatest of the bookmakers, and not given to betting on rumours.

Brian was puzzled.

“There is no justification for such an attack,” he said, “unless something happens to him at the post.”

He raised his glasses and focussed the tangled line of horses at the post. Conspicuous because of his colour, Grey Timothy was easy to distinguish. He was drawn on the extreme outside, a very unfavourable position.

“Perhaps it is the draw,” suggested Brian.

Colter shook his head.

“They have made Cigaretto favourite, and he is only two from the outside,” he said.

Brian met the girl’s troubled eyes and laughed.

“It is only a market scare,” he assured her. Oblivious to the minor battle which was being fought out in the ring, Mr Callander, who had put aside his attitude of frigid reserve, was plying the trainer with questions. Mr Colter, whose nerves were now on edge, answered in monosyllables.

How were the horses started?—which was ‘the post’? the one on the right or the one on the left?—what was that tape across the course? did the horses have to break it?—was it not easy to start a race?—why was the start so long delayed? All these questions he put, and more.

The girl through her glasses had no need to ask the last question. She watched the jumble of horses. She saw one come up and wheel round as if shot, she saw another that stood sideways to the tapes and another that persistently turned his tail to them. She saw another prancing, mincing horse, that prinked from side to side like a fighting raccoon, other modest creatures that kept in the background and refused to come within twenty yards of the tape.

“Ten to one Grey Timothy!” roared a voice in the ring, and Brian heard it and made a little grimace.

The girl had her eyes on the horses. Suddenly she saw them all move forward slowly as if some invisible influence had attracted them to common action. Even the most obstinate of them had relented and turned their heads to the tapes.

“They’re off!”

One sharp roar from the ring as the white tapes twanged upward and the field with one lightning leap tore away on its homeward journey.

First to break the line was Greenpol. His jockey wore a blue cap to distinguish the colours from those carried by the grey, and the black and white horizontal stripes went straight to the front.

A furlong had been traversed before the field found its stride, and here Greenpol was out on his own, leading by half a dozen lengths.

Grey Timothy had got away a little slowly, but he had come through his horses, though the pace was a terrific one, and at the end of the second furlong he was lying third, galloping very smoothly. Half-way home he was second, and was far enough ahead of the field to cross over. Now left and right of him came the far-striding Cigaretto in the colours of Lord Wintermere, and the powerful Culumus, and, at their heels, Finnington, the winner of the Lincolnshire Handicap of that year, and Tomborine. Four furlongs they ran in this order, then:

“My God,” whispered Colter, “what is wrong with Greenpol?”

The horse was rolling like a ship in a storm, left and right he swerved, and the field behind, quick to scent trouble, opened out to give him room.

Then suddenly the horse stumbled and went down with a thud.

In a flash the rest of the field had passed, leaving only a quivering heap on the ground, and a little way from it a motionless figure in the black and white stripes. A roar of excitement rose from the crowded stands.

As his stable companion fell, Grey Timothy swerved away to the left, and Finnington shot up on the rail side and headed Culumus.

In a flash the boy on Grey Timothy straightened him. They were less than a hundred yards from the winning post, and the grey was a length behind. “Grey Timothy’s beaten!” yelled a voice.

Up went the jockey’s whip on the grey, once, twice, it came down, and then the lad sat down to ride with his hands. Inch by inch the horse’s great stride brought him to the leaders. The whips were going now on the others.

“He’s beaten,” muttered Colter.

The three horses were half a dozen strides from the winning post, when Timothy’s jockey, with what looked like a supreme effort, drove the gallant beast forward with hands and heels.

They flashed past the post in a line and no man on the stands could say which had won.

“Beaten a short head, I think,” said Brian, and the hand that opened the cigarette-case did not shake.

“Poor old Timothy!”

All eyes were on the judge’s box waiting for the hoisting of the fateful number. Would it be ‘4’ that stood for Culumus, or ‘5’ for Finnington, or ‘17’ for Grey Timothy.

The rings were hushed as the leisurely judge selected the number. He lifted it above his head for the board-man to see.

“Seventeen!” roared Brian, and emitted a whoop of joy.

Grey Timothy had won by a short head and the same distance had separated second and third.