Checkers: A Hard-luck Story. Henry Blossom
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Checkers: A Hard-luck Story
I
I had never before attended the races. "The sport of kings" is not popular in Boston, my former home, but here in Chicago every one turns out on Derby Day, if at no other time. And so, catching something of the general enthusiasm, my friend Murray Jameson, who by the way is something of a sport, and I, who by the same token am not, found ourselves driving a very smart trap out Michigan avenue, amidst a throng of coaches, cabs, breaks and buggies, people and conveyances of every description – beautiful women beautifully costumed, young men, business men, toughs and wantons – all on their way to Washington Park, and all in a fever of excitement over the big race to be run that afternoon – the great American Derby.
"Now Jack," said Murray, as in due process we reached our box and sat gazing at the crowds about and below us, "it strikes me that we should have a small bet of some sort on the different races, just to liven things up a bit. What say we go down into the betting ring and have a look at the odds?"
"As you like," I answered, rising to show my willingness; "but you will have to do the necessary, I do n't know one horse from another."
"The less you know the more apt you are to win," said Murray airily; "but if you say so, I 'll make one bet for both of us, share and share alike. No plunging goes to-day though, Jack; we do n't want to gamble. We 'll have up a couple of dollars, just to focalize the interest. If we lose it won't amount to much, and if we win – we win.
"But just a word of warning before we go down. Keep your eye on your watch and your money, or you 'll get 'touched;' and if we should chance to be separated in a crowd, be careful not to let anyone 'tout' you."
Now, if there 's one thing I am especially proud of, it is my ability to take care of myself in any company, and Murray's patronizing manner, in view of my professed ignorance, rather galled me.
"The man who gets my watch or money is welcome to it," I answered shortly, buttoning my coat about me as we walked along; "and as for being 'touted' – well, I 'll try to take care of that."
Whether to be 'touted' was to be held up, buncoed, or drugged and robbed, I had no definite notion; but I took it to be a confidence game of some sort and despised it accordingly.
Just here, following Murray, I elbowed my way into the hottest, best-natured, most conglomerate crowd it was ever my lot to mingle with. Merchants, clerks and gilded youths, laborers, gamblers, negroes, and what-not, money in hand, pushed, pulled and trod upon each other indiscriminately in their efforts to reach the betting stands.
The book-makers, ranged along in rows, stood on little platforms in front of their booths, taking the crowd's money and calling out the amount and nature of each bet to assistants within who scratched off and registered corresponding pool-tickets which were quickly returned to the struggling bettors.
On a blackboard at the end of each booth were posted the names of the horses with their jockeys. Against these names the book-makers chalked up their figures, increasing or lessening the odds from time to time as the different horses were fancied or neglected in the betting.
"There 's nothing in this race but Maid Marian," said Murray, scanning the blackboards critically; "but 4 to 5 is the best I see on her, and I want even money or nothing" – the which was largely Greek to me until by questioning and deduction I found the situation in English to be as follows:
Maid Marian was judged on breeding and past performance to be much the best horse in the race, so much so that although about to run with five or six other racers, the book-makers demanded odds from those who bet on her in the ratio of 5 to 4.
When I asked Murray why they did not offer $1 to $1.25 he replied that "halves and quarters did n't go," and pointed out a sign which read: "No bets taken under $5." There were several smaller "books," however, which took $2 bets, and did a thriving business.
The crowd by this time had become absolutely dense. Murray was suddenly dragged away by a current in the mob which set towards a book-maker who had chalked up "even money, Maid Marian."
I followed long enough to see the "booky" change again to "4 to 5" before Murray reached him; and then, believing myself about to be crushed to death, I forced my way to the edge of the ring and stood hoping that my friend would do likewise.
A very "horsey" individual, wearing an owner's badge, and a most disreputable-looking negro were discussing the forthcoming race just behind me.
"Dat Maid Marian ain't got no license to win dis race – a mile 's too fah fo' her, suah," said the darkey. "Sister Mary 'll win – dat 's who 'll win."
"Naw! naw!" drawled the other. "Senator Irby 'll come purty near gettin' de coin, wid Peytonia fer an outside chance. I see Peytonia work a mighty fast mile yesterday mornin', and I 'm jes' takin' a flyer on her to win today for luck."
I glanced at the nearest blackboard – Peytonia 200 to 1!!!
Would they dare to lay such odds against a horse that had even the slightest chance of winning? It seemed most unlikely, and yet – I hesitated. There must be a possibility, or why was the horse in the race? My sporty-looking friend had said she was fast and had bet upon her himself. Perhaps I had chanced upon some inside information; and, after all, $2 was not a very serious matter whether I won or lost.
I started toward the betting stand, but suddenly stopped short. No, Murray was to make one bet for both of us, and had undoubtedly done what he thought was best – I would abide by his judgment.
But did he know what I knew – where could he be?
The crowd, which was now surging out of the betting ring toward the fence and up into the grand stand, thinned out rapidly; but I held my place, hoping to catch sight of Murray.
"Come on here and make your bets," yelled the book-makers, with whom business had begun to grow slack; "they 're at the post – they 'll be off in a minute."
I accepted the invitation. Rushing up to the nearest stand, I handed up two silver dollars. "Peytonia," I said, with all the nonchalance I could assume.
"Peytonia," repeated the book-maker; "four hundred to two," and in a moment more I was the possessor of a fantastically-colored piece of card-board, on which was scribbled in pencil "Peyt. – 400-2."
Suddenly there was a roar of excitement.
"They 're off," was the cry from a thousand throats, and I and the other tardy ones rushed to find a favorable spot from which to view the race.
I had n't time to hunt up our box; so making for the fence, I forced my way in next to the rail just as the horses, all in a bunch, swung recklessly around the first turn.
As the race progressed they began to string out, one horse very clearly taking the lead.
"The Maid's in front, Senator Irby second," yelled an enthusiast just beside me. "Where's Sister Mary? Maid Marian 's quittin'. There 's Flora Thornton. Go on, you Flora. Maid Marian 's out of it. The Senator 's leadin'. Flora is second. Just look at Peytonia.
I leaned over the rail, my heart in my mouth. Down the stretch they came at a terrible pace; some three were in front, running almost as one. In a breath they were by us and under the wire, but which of the three was first I could not determine.
Instantly there was a babel of voices, in which Senator Irby, Peytonia and Flora Thornton were severally declared to have won, and a general movement toward the judges' stand was inaugurated for the purpose of learning "the official."
I had scarcely gone a dozen yards before I ran across Murray, viciously elbowing his way through the crowd.
There was something so irresistibly funny in the expression of rueful chagrin which sat upon his good-natured face, that I forgot my excitement and began to laugh immoderately.
"Now, what do you think of that for luck?" he exclaimed on catching sight of me; "Senator Irby, a stake-horse, to be beaten out by an old dog like Peytonia? It's enough to – "
"Peytonia!" I echoed breathlessly, "did Peytonia win?"
"Of course she won. Did n't you see the race?"
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