Right Royal Part 2

He'll finish ninth; he'll be forced to sell His horse, his stud, and his home as well; He'll lose his lady, and all for this A daft belief in that horse of his.

It's nothing to me, a man might say, That a rich young fool should be cast away, Though what he does with his own, in fine, Is certainly no concern of mine.

I'm paid to see that his horse is fit, I can't engage for an owner's wit.

For the heart of a man may love his brother, But who can be wise to save another?

Souls are our own to save from burning, We must all learn how, and pay for learning.

And now, by the clock, that bell that went Was the Saddling Bell for the first event.

Since the time comes close, it will save some swearing If we get beforehand, and start preparing."

The roads were filled with a drifting crowd, Many mouth-organs droned aloud, A couple of lads in scarlet hats, Yellow trousers and purple spats, Dragged their banjos, wearily eyeing Pa.s.sing brakes full of sportsmen Hi-ing.

Then with a long horn blowing a glory Came the four-in-hand of the young Lord Tory, The young Lord's eyes on his leader's ears And the blood-like team going by to cheers.

Then in a brake came cheerers and hooters Peppering folk from tin peashooters; The Green Man's Friendly in bright mauve caps Followed fast in the Green Man's traps, The crowd made way for the traps to pa.s.s Then a drum beat up with a blare of bra.s.s, Medical students smart as paint Sang gay songs of a sad complaint.

A wolf-eyed man who carried a kipe Whistled as shrill as a man could pipe, Then paused and grinned with his gaps of teeth Crying "Here's your colours for Compton Heath, All the colours of all the starters, For gentlemen's ties and ladies' garters; Here you have them, penny a pin, Buy your colours and see them win.

Here you have them, the favourites' own, Sir Lopez' colours, the blue-white-roan, For all the races and what'll win 'em Real jockey's silk with a pin to pin 'em."

Out of his kipe he sold to many Bright silk b.u.t.tons and charged a penny.

A bookie walked with his clerk beside him, His stool on his shoulders seemed to ride him, His white top-hat bore a sign which ran "Your old pal Bunkie the working man."

His clothes were a check of three-inch squares, "Bright brown and fawn with the pearls in pairs,"

Double pearl b.u.t.tons ran down the side, The knees were tight and the ankles wide, A bright, thick chain made of discs of tin Secured a board from his waist to chin.

The men in the brakes that pa.s.sed at trot Read "First past Post" and "Run or Not."

The bookie's face was an angry red, His eyes seemed rolling inside his head.

His clerk was a lean man, secret, spare, With thin lips knowing and damp black hair.

A big black bag much weathered with rain Hung round his neck by a leathered chain.

Seven linked dancers singing a song Bowed and kicked as they danced along, The middleman thrust and pulled and squeezed A concertina to tunes that pleased.

After them, honking, with Hey, Hey, Hey, Came drivers thrusting to clear the way, Drivers vexed by the concertina, Saying "Go bury that d----d hyena."

Drivers dusty with wind-red faces Leaning out of their driving-places.

The dancers mocked them and called them names: "Look at our butler," "Drive on, James."

The cars drove past and the dust rose after, Little boys chased them yelling with laughter, Clambering on them when they slowed For a dirty ride down a perch of road.

A dark green car with a smart drab lining Pa.s.sed with a stately pair reclining; Peering walkers standing aside Saw Soyland's owner pa.s.s with his bride, Young Sir Eustace, biting his lip, Pressing his chin with his finger-tip, Nerves on edge, as he could not choose, From thought of the bets he stood to lose.

His lady, a beauty whom thought made pale, Prayed from fear that the horse might fail.

A bright bra.s.s rod on the motor's bonnet Carried her husband's colours on it, Scarlet spots on a field of cream: She stared ahead in a kind of dream.

Then came cabs from the railway stations, Carrying men from all the nations, Olive-skinned French with clipped moustaches, Almond-eyed like Paris apaches.

Rosy French with their faces shining From joy of living and love of dining.

Silent Spaniards, merry Italians, n.o.bles, commoners, saints, rapscallions; Russians tense with the quest of truth That maddens manhood and saddens youth; Learned Norwegians hale and limber, Brown from the barques new in with timber.

Oregon men of six feet seven With backs from Atlas and hearts from Heaven.

Orleans Creoles, ready for duels, Their delicate ears with scarlet jewels, Green silk handkerchiefs round their throats, In from sea with the cotton boats.

Portuguese and Brazilianos, Men from the mountains, men from the Llanos, Men from the Pampas, men from the Sierras, Men from the mines of the Cordilleras, Men from the flats of the tropic mud Where the b.u.t.terfly glints his mail with blood; Men from the pa.s.s where day by day The sun's heat scales the rocks away; Men from the hills where night by night The sheep-bells give the heart delight; Indians, Lascars and Bengalese.

Greeks from the mainland, Greeks from the seas; All kinds of bodies, all kinds of faces, All were coming to see the races, Coming to see Sir Lopez run And watch the English having their fun.

The Carib boxer from Hispaniola Wore a rose in his tilted bowler; He drove a car with a yellow panel, He went full speed and he drove a channel.

Then came dog-carts and traps and wagons With hampers of lunches, pies and flagons, Bucks from city and flash young bloods With vests "cut saucy" to show their studs, Hawbuck Towler and Spicey Random Tooled in style in a rakish tandem.

Blood d.i.c.k Haggit and Bertie Askins Had dancers' skirts on their horses' gaskins; Crash Pete Snounce with that girl of Dowser's Drove a horse that was wearing trousers; The waggonette from The Old Pier Head Drove to the tune "My Monkey's Dead."

The costermongers as smart as sparrows Brought their wives in their donkey barrows.

The clean-legged donkeys, clever and cunning, Their ears c.o.c.ked forward, their neat feet running, Their carts and harness flapping with flags, Were bright as heralds and proud as stags.

And there in pride in the flapping banners Were the costers' selves in blue bandannas, And the costers' wives in feathers curling, And their sons, with their sweet mouth-organs skirling.

And from midst of the road to the roadside shifting The crowd of the world on foot went drifting, Standing aside on the trodden gra.s.s To chaff as they let the traffic pa.s.s.

Then back they flooded, singing and cheering, Plodding forward and disappearing, Up to the course to take their places, To lunch and gamble and see the races.

The great grand stand, made grey by the weather, Flaunted colours that tugged their tether; Tier upon tier the wooden seats Were packed as full as the London streets When the King and Queen go by in state.

Click click clack went the turnstile gate; The orange-sellers cried "Fat and fine Seville oranges, sweet, like wine: Twopence apiece, all juice, all juice."

The pea and the thimble caught their goose.

Two white-faced lurchers, not over-clean, Urged the pa.s.sers to "spot the Queen."

They flicked three cards that the world might choose, They cried "All prizes. You cannot lose.

Come, pick the lady. Only a shilling."

One of their friends cried out, "I'm willing."

He "picked the lady" and took his pay, And he cried, "It's giving money away."

Men came yelling "Cards of the races"; Men hawked matches and studs and laces; Gipsy-women in green shawls dizened Read girls' fortunes with eyes that glistened; Negro minstrels on banjos strumming Sang at the stiles to people coming.

Like glistening beetles cl.u.s.tered close, The myriad motors parked in rows, The bonnets flashed, and the bra.s.s did clink, As the drivers poured their motors drink.

The March wind blew the smell of the crowd, All men there seemed crying aloud, But over the noise a louder roar Broke, as the wave that bursts on sh.o.r.e, Drowns the roar of the wave that comes, So this roar rose on the lesser hums, "I back the field. I back the field."

Man who lives under sentence sealed, Tragical man, who has but breath For few brief years as he goes to death, Tragical man by strange winds blown To live in crowds ere he die alone, Came in his jovial thousands ma.s.sing, To see Life moving and Beauty pa.s.sing.

They sucked their fruit in the wooden tiers And flung the skins at the pa.s.sers' ears; Drumming their heels on the planks below, They sang of Dolly of Idaho.

Past, like a flash, the first race went.

The time drew by to the great event.

At a quarter to three the big bell pealed; The horses trooped to the Saddling Field.

Covered in clothing, horse and mare p.r.i.c.ked their ears at the people there; Some showed devil, and some, composure, As they trod their way to the great enclosure.

When the clock struck three and the men weighed out, Charles Cothill shook, though his heart was stout.

The thought of his bets, so gaily laid, Seemed a stone the more when he sat and weighed.

As he swung in the scales and nursed his saddle, It seemed to him that his brains would addle; For now that the plunger reached the brink, The risk was more than he liked to think.

In ten more minutes his future life, His hopes of home with his chosen wife, Would all depend on a doubtful horse In a crowded field over Compton Course.

He had backed Right Royal for all he owned.

At thought of his want of sense he groaned.

"All for a dream of the night," he thought.

He was right for weight at eleven naught.

Then Em's sweet face rose up in his brain, He cursed his will that had dealt her pain: To hurt sweet Emmy and lose her love Was madman's folly by all above.

He saw too well as he crossed the yard That his madman's plunge had borne her hard.

"To wring sweet Em like her drunken father,