Of course she did not really mean it, but she has a way of railing at things just to be clever, yet it struck me that there might possibly be some underlying sense in her remark. It was rather unfair of her, however, as she had just cashed in on Morgan Styne's Sassafras at 10 to 1. When I suggested that she was a bit inconsistent, she retorted that she had only a woman's passion for gambling.
"Last year I went to Nice for Lent, thinking it would be quiet down there," she said. "As a result I lost six months' allowance at Monte Carlo."
"You are safe here," said I laughing. "There are no wheels running in New York. We do not allow gambling in this State."
She opened her blue eyes so wide that to escape their baneful influence I ran away to the ring, ostensibly to put up a hundred for her at 7 to 1 on the Garish stable's Umbrella.
Now horse-racing may be the sport of kings, but I maintain that it is still very respectable, and I have no sympathy with the bigots who are constantly attacking the tracks. These tracks are owned and supported by our very best people, and it is quite the smartest thing you can do to run a stable. Take, for instance, our little party yesterday—the Morgan Stynes, Evelyn Garish with Harry, the Plumstones, and Timpleton Duff—all with horses running, besides dozens of others we know. Would they support anything that was not eminently proper? The charge is made that it is gambling. Harry Garish or Timpey Duff would no more have their names connected with the ownership of a gambling-establishment than they would die, but they support racing because it is a noble sport; it takes people out-of-doors, out in the fresh air and sunshine, among the green lawns and trees; and is there anything more exciting, more exhilarating, than to see the thorough-breds struggling for the mastery, when you stand to win or lose a few thousands? Fortunate, indeed, is the public to have such men as Garish and Duff working in the interest of clean sport, and putting it on a thoroughly business-like and paying basis, men whose fathers' names were symbols of integrity in the business world, whose own names head the subscription lists of every charity in the city. As I told Mrs. Underbunk, Garish is the moving spirit in the Anti-pool-room League, and has done a great deal for the community in ridding it of those gambling-holes, which are so demoralizing to the wage-earners. She immediately inquired whether the thousands of men and women we saw all about us consulting their information sheets were not wage-earners, thinking of course that she had me cornered, but I was able to reply like a flash that they were not—most of them got their money in other ways.
Womanlike, she was not satisfied, but went on to inquire if Garish had tried to root out gambling at the tracks.
An absurd question! But patiently, as simply as I could, I explained to her that while a few persons might watch horses race just to see which was the fastest, the great majority of the public demanded the additional interest given by an opportunity to make ten dollars by risking one. It cost a great deal to support the tracks and stables, and no company of philanthropists living would dare to go into such a venture without being sure of enough gate-receipts to pay expenses, and twenty per cent. on the money invested. The betting-ring was, therefore, a necessity if we were to have the glorious sport at all.
Mrs. Underbunk was only about half satisfied, but she is a very strict little soul in her theories, and I saw that it was useless to argue with her. That she had come at all was a surprise to me, but Evelyn Garish asked her up to their Westchester house to spend a few days, and help her with the bazaar they are to have at Lazydays, to secure money for the work of St. Simon's parish. She suggested that we all meet at the track yesterday, as her filly Umbrella was to run in the May Handicap and would be a sure thing at long odds, so I agreed to take Gladys up in my car. We were to have had luncheon at the club-house with the Garishes and their party, which included the Stynes, the Duffs, and the Plumstones, but as luck would have it a policeman held me up for over-speeding on Seventh Avenue, and took us to the police-station. What a nuisance those fellows are! He said we were running at twenty-five miles an hour, though my chauffeur and I both swore that our machine could not do better than eight, under any circumstances. Fortunately, the police-court was still in session nearby, and I was able to get away after giving cash bail to appear next Wednesday. The judge was a very decent fellow and apologized for holding me. He said it was the law, to which I retorted emphatically that the law should be changed, as I was getting thoroughly tired of being arrested every time I took out my car. For fear of another interruption by the police I had to proceed very slowly, and after we reached the track we had hardly more than enough time to swallow a bite of luncheon before the call for the first race.
There was quite a gathering of the clans, and I must say it was very jolly to see everybody again, fresh and rested after their Lenten seclusion. Long Island and Westchester seemed to have emptied themselves into the club-house. Jack Twitters was there with his two daughters, and Julius Hogginson Fairfield in close attendance on Constance. Charley Bullington, who was in on the recent bulge in Potash common, brought up the Verys and Lord Less on his new coach, and made a mess of it, after he passed the gates, as his leaders got beyond his control, when Winthrop Jumpkin, 7th, came up behind in that infernal car he hires. It sounds like a rolling-mill in busy times. The Earl of Less jumped and landed in a bush, scratching himself severely, though he would have been perfectly safe on top as a half-dozen policemen and a couple of grooms were hanging to the fractious pair. Then there were the Plumstones, Gastly, with some men from the Cholmondeley Club, and a number of the professional horsey set who seem to stable themselves somewhere for the winter, and come forth in the spring with red faces and waistcoats.
Gladys Underbunk is a thorough-going sport in a quiet way, for when Morgan Styne had tipped me on his Sassafras and I had told her what a good thing it was, she got a small roll out of the recesses of her automobile-coat, and asked me to put up twenty-five for her to win. As Sassafras was understood to be a cripple, and the tipsters had Uncle Bill as a sure thing, I got 10 to 1 on the Styne colt, and he won in a romp. It was a splendid race. This was sport at its best, as I pointed out to Gladys. The air, clear and soft; the sunshine glimmering over the rolling greensward; the gay, happy thousands keyed to the highest pitch of excitement, while the clean-limbed horses, the brightly clad boys crouching tight in the saddles, struggled nose-and-nose for the mastery, then flashed under the wire with the gallant little Sassafras full two lengths in the lead—this was glorious. Mrs. Underbunk asked why there was not more enthusiasm over the winner, and I, of course, had to explain that Uncle Bill at 2 to 1 carried the money of the crowd, and as he had broken down at the entrance to the stretch, there was naturally some disappointment among the masses. Simple creature! When I handed her a roll of $275 she was loath to take it, said that it seemed wrong to make money so easily, and wanted to know whose it was. When she heard that it came from the bookies she was concerned lest they could not afford it, but I explained that they had got it from the crowd who had mostly backed Uncle Bill. Then she wanted to know if I knew of any other good things.