Part 31 (1/2)
THE FAMOUS BALLAD OF THE JUBILEE CUP
You may lift me up in your arms, lad, and turn my face to the sun, For a last look back at the dear old track where the Jubilee cup was won; And draw your chair to my side, lad--no, thank ye, I feel no pain-- For I'm going out with the tide, lad; but I'll tell you the tale again.
I'm seventy-nine or nearly, and my head it has long turned gray, But it all comes back as clearly as though it was yesterday-- The dust, and the bookies shouting around the clerk of the scales, And the clerk of the course, and the n.o.bs in force, and 'Is 'Ighness the Pr**ce of W*les.
'Twas a nine-hole thresh to wind'ard (but none of us cared for that), With a straight run home to the service tee, and a finish along the flat, ”Stiff?” ah, well you may say it! Spot barred, and at five stone ten!
But at two and a bisque I'd ha' run the risk; for I was a greenhorn then.
So we stripped to the B. Race signal, the old red swallowtail-- There was young Ben Bolt and the Portland Colt, and Aston Villa, and Yale; And W. G., and Steinitz, Leander and The Saint, And the G*rm*n Emp*r*r's Meteor, a-looking as fresh as paint;
John Roberts (scratch), and Safety Match, The Lascar, and Lorna Doone, Oom Paul (a bye), and Romany Rye, and me upon Wooden Spoon; And some of us cut for partners, and some of us strung for baulk, And some of us tossed for stations--But there, what use to talk?
Three-quarter-back on the Kingsclere crack was station enough for me, With a fresh jackyarder blowing and the Vicarage goal a-lee!
And I leaned and patted her centre-bit and eased the quid in her cheek, With a ”Soh my la.s.s!” and a ”Woa you brute!”--for she could do all but speak.
She was geared a thought too high perhaps; she was trained a trifle fine; But she had the grand reach forward! I never saw such a line!
Smooth-bored, clean run, from her fiddle head with its dainty ear half-c.o.c.k, Hard-bit, _pur sang_, from her overhang to the heel of her off hind sock.
Sir Robert he walked beside me as I worked her down to the mark; ”There's money on this, my lad,” said he, ”and most of 'em's running dark; But ease the sheet if you're bunkered, and pack the scrummages tight, And use your slide at the distance, and we'll drink to your health to-night!”
But I bent and tightened my stretcher. Said I to myself, said I-- ”John Jones, this here is the Jubilee Cup, and you have to do or die.”
And the words weren't hardly spoken when the umpire shouted ”Play!”
And we all kicked off from the Gasworks End with a ”Yoicks!” and a ”Gone Away!”
And at first I thought of nothing, as the clay flew by in lumps, But stuck to the old Ruy Lopez, and wondered who'd call for trumps, And luffed her close to the cus.h.i.+on, and watched each one as it broke, And in triple file up the Rowley Mile we went like a trail of smoke.
The Lascar made the running but he didn't amount to much, For old Oom Paul was quick on the ball, and headed it back to touch; And the whole first flight led off with the right as The Saint took up the pace, And drove it clean to the putting green and trumped it there with an ace.
John Roberts had given a miss in baulk, but Villa cleared with a punt; And keeping her service hard and low the Meteor forged to the front; With Romany Rye to windward at dormy and two to play, And Yale close up--but a Jubilee Cup isn't run for every day.
We laid our course for the Warner--I tell you the pace was hot!
And again off Tattenham Corner a blanket covered the lot.
Check side! Check side! now steer her wide! and barely an inch of room, With The Lascar's tail over our lee rail and brus.h.i.+ng Leander's boom.
We were running as strong as ever--eight knots--but it couldn't last; For the spray and the bails were flying, the whole field tailing fast; And the Portland Colt had shot his bolt, and Yale was b.u.mped at the Doves, And The Lascar resigned to Steinitz, stalemated in fifteen moves.
It was bellows to mend with Roberts--starred three for a penalty kick: But he chalked his cue and gave 'em the b.u.t.t, and Oom Paul marked the trick-- ”Offside--No Ball--and at fourteen all! Mark c.o.c.k! and two for his n.o.b!”
When W.G. ran clean through his lee and beat him twice with a lob.
He yorked him twice on a crumbling pitch and wiped his eye with a brace, But his guy-rope split with the strain of it and he dropped back out of the race; And I drew a bead on the Meteor's lead, and challenging none too soon, Bent over and patted her garboard strake, and called upon Wooden Spoon.
She was all of a s.h.i.+ver forward, the spoondrift thick on her flanks, But I'd brought her an easy gambit, and nursed her over the banks; She answered her helm--the darling! and woke up now with a rush, While the Meteor's jock, he sat like a rock--he knew we rode for his brus.h.!.+
There was no one else left in it. The Saint was using his whip, And Safety Match, with a lofting catch, was pocketed deep at slip; And young Ben Bolt with his niblick took miss at Leander's lunge, But topped the net with the ricochet, and Steinitz threw up the sponge.
But none of the lot could stop the rot--nay, don't ask _me_ to stop!
The villa had called for lemons, Oom Paul had taken his drop, And both were kicking the referee. Poor fellow! he done his best; But, being in doubt, he'd ruled them out--which he always did when pressed.
So, inch by inch, I tightened the winch, and chucked the sandbags out-- I heard the nursery cannons pop, I heard the bookies shout: ”The Meteor wins!” ”No, Wooden Spoon!” ”Check!” ”Vantage!”