VISIT TO CASTOR.
Father TIME shivered, and wrapped his ancient cloak more closely about him.
"Come, come," said Mr. Punch, "I understand your disgust. But there is still something left to us in which we may take pleasure. Upon a neighbouring star the people delight in horses. All day long they bestride them with a courage never equalled. Swift as the wind are the steeds, and for mere honour and glory are they matched one against the other, and from all parts of the star the populace is gathered together in its hundreds of thousands to applaud and to crown them that ride the victors in the races. Let us fare thither, for the sport is splendid, and we shall there forget the pain we have suffered here. Indeed, it is but a short flight to Castor."
Thus speaking, he seized the Father by his lock, and floated with him into space. The roar of the Pollucian streets grew fainter and fainter, the lights twinkled dimly, until at length they disappeared. Then gradually the land loomed up above them out of a bank of clouds, and in another moment the wandering pair stood once more on stella firma.
They had alighted on an immense grassy plain, which stretched away in every direction, as far as the eye could reach. On every side were to be seen men and women and children, mounted on horses. To their right a band of youths, arrayed in coloured shirts, white linen breeches, and yellow boots, and wearing little coloured caps, jauntily set upon their heads, were careering wildly hither and thither on swift and wiry ponies. They were waving in the air long sticks, fitted with a cross block of wood at the end, and were pursuing a wooden ball. Many were the collisions, the crashes, and the falls. On every side men and ponies rolled over in the dust; but they rose, shook themselves as though nothing had happened, and dashed again into the fray. Father TIME shouted with enthusiasm.
"Yes," said the Sage, "you do well to cheer them. They are gallant youngsters these. The game they play is 'Polo,' and though the expense be great, the contempt of danger and pain is also great. They play it well, but I doubt not we could match them at Hurlingham. But see," he added, "on our left. What rabble is that?" As he spoke a panting deer flew past them hard pressed by a pack of yelping hounds. Close behind came a mob of riders, two or three of them glittering in scarlet and gold, the rest in every variety of riding-dress.
"Behold," said the Arch-philosopher, "a Royal Sport. These are the Castorian Buck-hounds; that elderly gentleman is their master. They pay him £1500 a-year to provide sport for Cockneys. The sport consists in letting a deer out of a cart and chasing him till he nearly dies of fatigue. Then they rope him and replace him in the cart. After that they all drain their flasks, and consider themselves sportsmen. Poor stuff, I think."
"Of course," said the Father, "you have nothing of that sort in England."
Mr. Punch was about to reply when a well-appointed four-in-hand drove up, and a courteous gentleman who handled the ribbons, offered the two strangers seats.
"I will take you," he remarked, "to our great national race-meeting. I assure you it is well worth seeing."
The offer was accepted. A pleasant drive brought them to the race-course. To tell the truth it was much like most other race-courses. A huge crowd was assembled, and the din of roaring thousands filled the air. As they drove up a race had just started, and it was pretty to see the flash of the coloured caps and jackets in the sun. The horses came nearer and nearer. As they rounded the bend which led into the straight run in, the excitement became almost too great for Father TIME. A torrent of sporting phrases broke from his lips. One after another he backed every horse on the card for extravagant sums, and the bets were promptly, but methodically booked by Mr. Punch. A handsome chestnut was leading by two good lengths, and apparently going strong, but about a hundred yards from the post he suddenly slowed down for some unaccountable reason. In a moment a bay and a brown flew past him, there was a final roar and the race was over. The bay had won, the brown was second, and the chestnut a length behind, was only third. "Most extraordinary thing that," said the Paternal One; "I made sure the chestnut would win."
"That's just it," broke in the owner of the coach; "the public thought so too, and they've lost their money."
"Just look at the mob," he continued, "crowding round the jockey and the owner. 'Gad, I shouldn't care to be hooted like that. But, of course, they've made their pile on it; never intended him to win. Just sent him out for an airing. Pretty bit of roping, wasn't it?" he continued, addressing Mr. Punch.
But the Sportsman of Sportsmen only frowned.
"In the land we come from," he rejoined, "the sport of racing is pure, and only the most high-minded men take part in it. Their desire is not to make money, but merely to improve the breed of British horses. I grieve to find that here the case is otherwise. Reform the Sport, Sir; reform it, and make it worthy of Castorian gentlemen."
His newly-found friend only smiled.
Then he winked as he hummed to himself the words of a song, which ran something like this:—
"Come, sportsmen all, give ear to me, I'll tell you what occurred,
But of course you won't repeat it when I've told you;
For with honourable gentlemen I hope that mum's the word,
When a horse you've laid your money on has sold you.
I presume you lost your shekels, and you think it rather low,
Since you're none of you as rich as NORTH or BARING.
But another time you'll get them back by being 'in the know,'
When a favourite is started for an airing.
"That's an odd sort of song," said Mr. Punch.
"Not so odd as the subject," replied the singer. "But you have only heard the first verse; wait till you know the second."
"'But they didn't tell the public; it's a precious, jolly shame;'
(Such behaviour to the public seems to shock it)—
Now if you'd been placed behind the scenes you wouldn't think the same,
But put principles and winnings in your pocket.
A gent who owns a stable doesn't always think of you,
And he doesn't seem to fancy profit-sharing.
And you really shouldn't curse him when he manages a 'do.'
With a favourite who's only on an airing."
Before the singer could proceed any farther, a frightful hubbub arose. A pale, gasping wretch, rushed past, pursued by a howling, cursing mob of ruffians. As he fled, he tripped, and fell, and in a moment they were on the top of him, buffeting, and beating the very life out of him.
"That's murder," said Mr. Punch. "Where are the police?"
And he was on the point of stepping down, to render assistance, when his friend laid a hand upon his arm.
"Oh, that's only a welsher," he said; "he's bolting with other people's money."
"Is it the owner of the chestnut?" inquired Father TIME.
"Bless your heart, no," was the reply. "It's only a low-class cheat. The owner of the chestnut is—"
But Mr. Punch had no wish to hear or see more.
He took TIME's arm, and together they floated away into space, to land shortly afterwards in another sphere.