Dangerous Dilemmas: Startling but True

by James Anderson Peddie

You never knew my partner. All this happened before your time. He belonged to a good family, and was an excellent boon companion. A mutual friend first made us known to each other at one of the Newmarket meetings. He wanted to get a confederate to join him in forming a small stud; and, after a deal of correspondence it was at length decided to enter into partnership and try for a large handicap. As most money could be made over the Cambridgeshire, we selected that race. Our attempts previous to the trial of Santorin had been, as stated already, utter failures. When I signed the deed of agreement I did not know that my partner was in a very embarrassed position in regard to money, and was in the hands of the Jews. He ought to have explained this to me. He was a good enough fellow, but he had a serious failing—the slightest obstacle in his way he was bound to refuse, he would not face a difficulty. If I had been informed of his circumstances I would assuredly have steered clear of the entanglement, and there would be no story to relate to you.

A woman plays a part in this narrative of fact. A member of that sex usually has something to do with most mundane affairs. My partner was married, and had several young children. For the purposes of education a niece lived with the family and acted as governess. It was the niece who revealed the plot and saved us from ruin.

A charming, refined girl was the niece—Elizabeth Emerson—alas! now dead. You think I am prejudiced; judge for yourself—her photograph is before me. As I open the album sad thoughts arise in my mind of joys departed, of friends and sweethearts estranged or "gone before." Miss Emerson had a beautifully formed head, resembling that of Clytie, whose bust I presented to her for her own little sitting-room. Her head was crowned with a luxuriance of brown hair, wayward locks of which would persist in straying from their proper position as if they wished to be caressed; forehead not too high, not that of a strong-minded woman—only the head of a pretty girl, and partly hidden by the hair as in the bust mentioned. Her eyes were peculiar—they were so large and luminous, and had that almond shape so much admired. The nose was not severely classical, but it was all but straight. The lips were not too thin, the mouth was exceedingly small, she had the whitest of little teeth, the tiniest of shell-like ears, and a rose-tint complexion, betokening health. Need I add that when her feet were visible they were in keeping with the features of the girl who was at this period just budding into womanhood, and who, although diminutive in stature, was magnificently proportioned—a model for a sculptor.

Fond of amusement, she was anything but fast; underlying her careless, laughing, satirical manner, there existed sound sense, a great respect for other people's feelings and one of the finest natures man could wish for in a wife.

But I must proceed with my story. The Cambridgeshire was nigh at hand, and Santorin had gone on well—had not been sick nor sorry a single day, the commission had been worked to our entire satisfaction, and an excellent jockey—now at the head of his profession—retained to ride the horse. The largeness of the commission, coupled with the lenient weight began to attract public notice to Santorin. Touts, amateur and the reverse, arrived to watch his movements and despatch their reports daily to employers and friends. One of the best judges on the turf paid our training ground a visit on behalf of the journal he represented, and wrote thus about the horse:—"Santorin is a brown horse, with black points, standing quite 15 hands 3 inches high, with splendid fore-quarters, and in galloping he places his hind legs well under him, showing all that hare-like action so admirably adapted to get him up the somewhat severe Cambridgeshire hill. No exception can be taken to his sire or dam—a combination of endurance and speed. At the weight he is a very dangerous competitor, and if I couple him with Hymet and Keffesia, I think I have named the winner."

The horse soon made a noise in the betting, and when the Cesarewitch was decided as little as 8 to 1 was taken about him.

Our commission averaged 40 to 1, and we stood to win between us nearly £80,000.

It was within a week of the race, when to my utter astonishment I received one day innumerable telegrams from friends asking me what was the matter with Santorin. The messages all contained the same intelligence, that certain bookmakers at the Wellington Club had been taking liberties with him and had driven him back to 16 to 1.