Delphi Complete Works of Thorne Smith (Illustrated), page 169
With growing amazement Mr. Topper’s friends followed from the clubhouse veranda the impassioned reprisals of the horse. Topper was unamazed. Had he seen Amalek dragged bodily from the track and hurled into the bushes he would not have been amazed. He knew from past experiences how ruthless his absent companions could be once their interests had become involved.
But when Amalek left the track he did so of his own free will. Before his departure, however, he threw consternation into the ranks of the competing horses. Every living thing within reach he attacked with his teeth and heels. The only horse to escape his wrath was already so far behind in the race as to escape the attention of the general public. This was the Colonel’s horse — his hand-picked favorite, number seven, lucky number seven, ironically known as Le Plongeur, or in a reasonable language, the Diver.
Topper had been mysteriously advised to bet his francs on this tattered shred of horseflesh. He had done so. And because of the weird proclivities his friends attributed to him they also had wagered heavily on the seemingly impossible success of this ruined “ootsaidaire.”
Upon the shoulders of Marion and Mrs. Hart and the rump of Oscar devolved the responsibility of seeing to it that Amalek and the Diver reversed the logical order of march. It was a heavy responsibility and one that involved no little activity. In fact, all hands were exceedingly busy.
While Amalek employed himself in the line of unseating jockeys with his teeth, deflecting honest horses from their courses with his feet and making a menace of himself in general, Marion, with the rear end of Oscar, hurried to the same end of the shambling Diver and incited the dog to attack. At the first sharp nip at his fetlocks Le Plongeur, or lucky number seven, stopped effortlessly in his tracks and looked back to see what new affliction his God had seen fit to punish him with for not having run faster in the days of his youth. Marion, standing well out of the way of the horse’s hoofs, eyed his reactions with professional interest. She figured out that even the slowest horse, if bitten by the rump of a dog, would feel inclined to move a trifle faster. She was right. Le Plongeur blinked several times very rapidly as if to clear his eyes of the familiar dust of other horses, then he bent his gaze more intently upon the semi-detached rump of Oscar. Once more the Diver blinked, this time to clear them of a vision far more disturbing than dust. As realization slowly dawned upon the dim mind behind the eyes, an expression of horror overspread the poor animal’s face and continued on until his entire body was held in the clutch of fear. Here was an object to be avoided at all costs. Here at last was a cause that justified real honest-to-God leg work. It was then that the Diver started into a run such as neither he nor any other horse had ever run before. The inspired speed of his mount was even more of a surprise to the jockey than it was to the horse itself. Gamely he stuck to various sections of the flying beast and hoped that his luck would last. Even had Amalek not involved his fellow horses together with their riders in a hand-to-hand combat for survival itself, the Colonel’s choice would have won by several convulsive lengths.
“Will someone more familiar than I with the finer nuances of racing kindly explain to me what the hell Amalek thinks he’s doing with himself and all these other horses?” Millie Coit inquired in a hushed voice.
“That seems fairly obvious,” Blynn Nelson replied. “After having either murdered or mutilated all other competitors in the race save one he is now trying to climb the fence in order to attack the judges’ stand in the rear.”
“I can count at least four jockeys struggling in agony on the track,” vouchsafed Harold Gay. “And just a moment ago I fancied I caught a glimpse of a dog that was not all there. Of course, I must be wrong.” Mr. Gay removed his field glasses from his eyes and looked suggestively at Mr. Topper. “What little I saw of the dog,” the speaker added slowly, “looked startlingly familiar. Would you care to look, Mr. Topper?”
“Heaven forbid,” replied Mr. Topper hastily. “I’m seeing too much as it is with my naked eyes.”
Oscar, having seen the Diver off to a good start, concealed his invaluable rump in a flower bed and awaited further demands upon his peculiar talents. By this time the stands were quite naturally in an uproar. The judges were trying to throw their hands away while discharging streams of inquiries and objections in the general direction of God. The once proud owner of Amalek was sneaking down a side street and seriously entertaining ideas of assuming a disguise. His horse, his magnificent Amalek, he now considered an unclean reptile. Little did that matter to the reptile himself. Having tossed his jockey to the winds, he had succeeded in putting the fence between himself and the track. Here, in the center of the field, he was now defying man, beast, and God to get together and try to do something about all the horrid things he had done.
While the other demoralized horses were casting about for their jockeys, the Diver, with stark terror in his eyes, tore along the track in an earnest effort to remove himself as far as possible from the thing he refused even to think about. It was a neat display of concentrated space-eating speed. In spite of the fact that the Diver’s success would be their loss, the spectators began to cheer.
Hunt Davis, who had been born and bred in blue-grass regions, rubbed his eyes in bewilderment.
“Damn me,” he observed in an admiring voice, “if I ever saw a horse run any faster than that in all my born days. Looks like he’s downright scared about something. Maybe he’ll kill his fool self.”
“Not before he wins, I hope,” said Millie Coit. “That’s our own little private favorite, that rocket out there. After he’s made it a race he can die a thousand deaths, and may God rest his soul each time.”
“Then Topper was right about betting on him,” advanced Waddles. “I wonder how he knew?”
“One wonders no end of things about dear Mr. Topper,” observed Mrs. Blake Willard insinuatingly. “For example, how does the man contrive to play such an astonishing game of tennis?”
“Isn’t there enough to wonder about?” Mr. Topper mildly interposed. “Both Amalek and our Diver there are more astonishing than I am.”
“So long as he makes me a rich woman,” Millie Coit declared, “I don’t give a rap how he goes about it.”
While this casual discussion was going on, so was the Diver. Lucky number seven was going on and on and on. Even now it is not definitely known whether he ever stopped. When he found himself face to face with the finishing line he was seen to hesitate for the first time in the course of his mad progress. Now the Diver knew nothing at all about finishing lines. He may have heard of such things, but the crowd had never waited long enough to let him complete a race. Before the tragic eyes of the judges and in the presence of the hooting multitude the horse felt out of place and alone. Should he go on with this new venture? He looked back fearfully, then the memory of that terrible nipping rump bounding so jauntily about the track overcame the horse’s embarrassment. Emulating his name he plunged past the post. If he did not win the race he might lose his life. This was no time to stand on ceremony. As fresh as if the race had just begun, the Diver kept on going.
“We’ll have to send a wireless to that horse’s jockey to let the beggar know he won,” Commander Becket remarked in a disgusted voice. “I’ve seen horses run in all parts of the world, but this is about the raggedest race in my recollection.”
However, the retired naval officer was destined to witness even raggeder races than this one before the day was done. From the first race to the last, things went from bad to worse. Horses grew more restive and jockeys less sure of their seats — less sure of anything, for that matter. The concerted efforts of Marion, Mrs. Hart, and Oscar succeeded so well in unnerving the horses for the second and third races that only a few of them were able to appear in public, the heavy-money horses invariably losing to the most unexpected entries. Apparently the goddess of chance was at last taking pity on physical wrecks in the line of horseflesh.
The fourth race was perhaps the most ridiculously futile of all. It was won by a deaf horse. And the deaf horse won this race solely because she was a deaf horse and consequently unable to hear the disconcerting and objectionable sounds Marion Kerby and Mrs. Hart cleverly created the impression the other horses were making. No brain other than that of a woman could have conceived a device so embarrassing both to the horses and to their jockeys. Even the starter was involved in the misunderstanding arising from what the poor chap had every reason to believe to be a group of talking, cursing, and vulgarly offensive horses. The only horse that appeared to retain both her poise and her self-respect was named La Sorcière. And La Sorcière was deaf. Stone deaf.
As the already nervous animals were busily engaged in lining up at the starting barrier, Marion Kerby, placing herself close to the mouth of one of them, suddenly smote the air with a wild, unnatural scream. The horse, greatly upset, strove to give the impression that such a desperate, unhorse-like sound could not have issued from him. He turned his head and looked accusingly at his neighbor, who in turn looked severely at the horse next to him. And this kept up until finally all the horses were looking frowningly at each other. To see a number of horses suspiciously inspecting each other’s faces is an unusual thing. Very. At any rate, the starter seemed to think so. He, too, looked suspiciously at all the horses, his scrutiny including their jockeys. When Mrs. Hart contrived to place a truly dreadful sound in the mouth of still another horse the starter started himself. He was moved to words.
“Gentlemen,” he said, addressing the jockeys of the two offending horses, “is it that your mounts are in pain? Such noises sound far from well. They are, truly, altogether new to me, those sounds.”
The two accused jockeys stoutly denied the imputation that their horses were anything other than the healthiest and most well bred of beasts. Monsieur the starter must be thinking of a couple of other horses.
A burst of ironical and defiant jeers interrupted these protestations. La Sorcière alone, of all the horses, retained her poise.
“A thousand thunders!” exclaimed the starter. “You must do something about all this. Your horses, they are unbecomingly boisterous. Quiet them, if you please.”
“One thousand and one thunders!” shouted a horse in a reckless voice. “No more nor no less.”
The starter looked pained at being out-thundered by a mere horse. He looked even more so when an especially offensive noise issued from a horse standing in the center of the group. Even the horse’s jockey looked a trifle dismayed. It was such a sound as crude persons employ when giving another person the raspberry in almost any language. The starter had his own ideas about being given the raspberry in French. He looked angrily at the jockey.
“Your horse,” he demanded, “did you make him to push that distressing noise?”
“M’sieu,” protested the jockey, “is it that you fancy I would encourage my little cabbage to give issue to a sound so unrefined as that?”
The starter had his doubts about this. The jockey’s reputation was none too savory. His mount had a mean eye — far from one of refinement. The starter intimated as much. Marion tugged the horse over to the starter and by a series of irritating pinches made the frightened and bewildered creature endeavor to deposit his front feet heavily upon the starter’s chest. The starter climbed up on the fence and disqualified both horse and rider. High-pitched neighs of derision now became general among the horses. Marion and Mrs. Hart were in full tongue. Surprisingly effeminate shrieks and catcalls fell from the lips of the perturbed jockeys. In the midst of this hubbub one jockey was distinctly heard to allude suspiciously to the sex of another jockey. The upshot of this was an exchange of blows and several new disqualifications. By this time it was a toss-up between the horses and the starter as to which would be disqualified first. It was obvious that the horses were as unfit to start as the official was to start them. He was brought to a full realization of his ridiculous position when he heard La Sorcière announce in a bored but ladylike voice:
“Monsieur the starter, one grows fatigued on one’s feet. Me, I am prepared to march.”
This public rebuke by the least favored of animals on four legs was just a little too much for Monsieur the starter. He released the few remaining qualified horses and departed in search of a substitute to take his place. Under the circumstances the horses ran as well as could be expected, but it was plain to see that their thoughts were on other matters. They could not be disturbed by mere racing. La Sorcière, anxious to retire from the public eye to the comfort and seclusion of her stall, hurried right along. As a result of the indifference of her competitors the Colonel had the satisfaction of seeing still another of his favorites jounce home a winner. It is doubtful if La Sorcière even realized she had actually won a race, and as no one could tell her about it she probably never found out.
For the fifth race the Colonel radically altered his method of procedure. Instead of picking a favorite, his instructions were merely that at all costs John Bull and Coquette should be prevented from placing.
“How will we do that?” Mrs. Hart inquired. “Do you expect us to wrestle with a couple of infuriated horses?”
The Colonel shrugged indifferently.
“That’s your end of the game,” he replied. “Don’t bother me. Why not hang onto the beggars’ tails?”
“That’s our end of the game,” said Mrs. Hart.
“Not a bad end either,” replied Marion. “We need a little diversion.”
Accordingly, when the fifth race started, Marion and Mrs. Hart, clinging gamely to the tails of John Bull and Coquette respectively, found themselves being hurtled through space amid a great clattering of hoofs.
“Gord!” gasped Mrs. Hart. “I might be invisible to the eye, but I still retain some feelings.”
“These fool horses aren’t giving us a tumble,” complained Marion. “Might just as well not be here at all.”
“Do you find the motion soothing?” asked Mrs. Hart.
“A little hard to breathe,” admitted Marion.
“Hang on for the first turn!” cried Mrs. Hart.
“Oh, why did we ever take up racing?” asked Marion. “This is no place for a lady.”
“Not even for a kite,” said Mrs. Hart. “Port your helm.”
After they had weathered the perils of the first turn the conversation was resumed.
“I’m a grand old flag and I’m tied to a nag,” Marion sang out.
“I’d like to give Coquette a piece of my mind,” said Mrs. Hart. “The old girl has a wicked wobble.”
It was only to be expected that this steady flow of conversation between the two ladies should arouse some interest on the part of the jockeys. The need to know just who was doing all this talking right behind their backs became so urgent that both of them turned round in their saddles in an attempt to discover its source. This maneuver caused them to sacrifice much valuable ground.
“At whom are you looking, my old?” Marion asked nastily in French.
“What a repulsive face mine has,” observed Mrs. Hart.
“From where I am I’m not getting a noble view of horseflesh,” Marion announced.
“Far from it,” replied Mrs. Hart. “In fact, I’m getting a very low opinion of horses in general.”
“If John looks as bad in front as he does behind,” commented Marion, “I’d hate to meet him face to face.”
“It couldn’t be worse than the face of my jockey,” declared Mrs. Hart in plain but painful French.
The jockeys were getting mad. They were burning up. The intensely personal remarks of the ladies had deeply wounded their impressionable French natures. No man likes to have such insinuations made about his face. The insulted jockeys found themselves unable to concentrate on the important business at hand. Their mounts began to lag farther and farther behind. They were growing weary of the pace. Meanwhile the two ladies were considering what next to try to discourage John Bull and Coquette and to humiliate their jockeys. The last turn lay close ahead. The animals might be holding back for the home stretch.
“I’m going to twist this devil’s tail,” announced Marion.
“I’ll try it on mine, too,” said Mrs. Hart. “Clean off.”
Upon the putting of this crude suggestion to the test it was the horses that looked back this time. With large, inquiring eyes they inspected their twisted tails. What was going on back there, they wondered. Why should anyone want to do that to them? There was something sinister about all this. The interest of the horses in their tails was fatal to their heads. Speeding blindly as they were in a semicircular position, they suddenly became entangled and fell in a large, untidy heap from which their jockeys, more indignant than injured, presently emerged with a couple of stories to tell that no one ever believed. Once more the Colonel’s will had been done.
