Julius Hogginson Fairfield came strutting up, all smiles, and told us in an offhand way that he had put up five hundred on Sassafras, making quite a killing. It sounded very well, only I had happened to be right in line behind him when he placed a ten-dollar bill on the Styne colt. But people do like to give the impression of being real sports. I was tempted to remark that men who had to depend on their brains for a living, like writers, had no business risking even ten on the result of a race, but I decided to leave him happy in the profound impression he had created as a wise one. Though we did not ask him, he followed us down to the paddock with Evelyn Garish when we went to look over their Umbrella, and he declared positively that he was going to bet his imaginary five thousand straight and place on the black filly. But when I heard that Pebble, the darky, was to be up in place of Tomlinson, the boy who rides regularly for the Garish stable but was under suspension, I got my friend Cantle, the trainer, behind a tree and consulted him. Evelyn Garish said she would never forgive herself if we did not back Umbrella, for she believed it was like finding money, and I had to assure her that I would, but when Mrs. Underbunk handed me $100 I whispered to her for permission to use my own judgment. It came so straight from that trainer that 4 to 1 on Doctor B. to win seemed too good a thing to miss. In all my life I have never seen such a poor race. Doctor B., undoubtedly the best of the lot, was practically left at the post, thanks to the starter, and the Garish filly led all the way and finished in a walk. Mrs. Underbunk was so wildly excited over the result that she forgot all about there ever having been any other horse in the race at all, and I just had not the courage to enlighten her. So when she told me to hurry down to those dear bookies and get her money, I returned to a quiet spot and found solace in a Scotch and soda. Then I counted eight hundred out of my own pocket and went back to the balcony and paid up, and effusively thanked Mrs. Garish for having let me know about Umbrella. It was pretty hard to have to look pleased to death, after Doctor B. had taken a large part of my money, in addition to my settling with Gladys. Then to make matters worse, that infernal Fairfield had to come bowling up and intimate that he had hit the ring for close to twenty thousand, though I had seen him pass a small roll of tens into the hands of the shirt-sleeved gentleman who takes in the money for J. Cohen.
Still Mrs. Underbunk's gratitude was worth paying for. She had got thoroughly into the spirit of the sport, and wanted to know if I had any more good things. I asked her playfully if she did not think betting was wrong.
"It is delightfully wrong," said she seriously. "But I understand those book-makers are a horrid lot of men, and why shouldn't I take their money?"
So she made a sentimental bet on Harry Garish to win the steeple-chase at two miles and a half, on Fencerail, heavily weighted. Garish did not seem to have a ghost of a chance on his ancient jumper, and was quoted at times as long as 20 to 1. I got her 15 to 1 for a hundred, but was wise myself. I always was afraid of steeple-chases, particularly with gentlemen riders up. Fencerail was never in the running till the last two jumps, one of which Blue Fox, the favorite, refused absolutely, while the second sent Tommy Tattler off his Rockaway into the water. It was a positive sin the way Fencerail came home lengths in front of the surviving bunch.
By this time I inwardly vowed that I should follow Mrs. Underbunk, and at least quit the game even. Gastly came up and said that he liked Primrose in the fourth, and she declared sweetly that she would back anything Mr. Gastly liked. So I proceeded to send my money along with hers, and Primrose came down the stretch when the bugle was calling, the fifth to the post. Gastly was not seen about the club-house again. With a like result in the last two with horses chosen for their pretty names, I had not enough money left to give cash bail, so the run over to Lazydays was made at a very sedate speed. However, I did not mind going slowly. The Garishes in their brake, with the Stynes, Cecil Hash, and Sally Bilberry passed us on the road, and when I explained that the machine was out of order, they wanted Gladys Underbunk to go on with them. Delightful woman! She refused. She was in the highest of spirits with a couple of thousand in winnings tucked away in her automobile-coat, and I was quite consoled for my own losses. When I railed at her for the sudden change in her views on betting, she replied that she thought racing was fairer than roulette, because you could get inside information, like our tip on Umbrella.
Luck changed a bit last night. I won quite a little at bridge from Cecil Hash and Evelyn Garish. This morning I am feeling brighter, but I am staying in my room, as the rector at St. Simon's always bores me to death. This afternoon I am to try a little golf, though I have not played it in years. I feel that I need some violent exercise.
Mr. Mudison married Mrs. Underbunk at St. Simon's in June. The wedding was a quiet one, but so important, because of the character of the contracting parties, that full details of it were given at the time in the newspaper accounts. The ceremony was the simplest possible, there being no bridesmaids, though the bride had as pages her two small sons, Devereux and Maltravers Underbunk. Mr. Gastly was best man, and there was a small breakfast later at Mrs. Garish's country house. Many pages of Mr. Mudison's manuscripts are devoted to the days preceding this important event in his life, but when it is considered that after all he chronicles only an everyday romance, that he is telling again the story that has been told thousands and thousands of times before, it is readily understood why this part of his memoirs is not deemed of great value. Of far more interest it is to see him settled down happily with his wife and step-children in a modest house; and it is with this epoch that the next part of his edited papers has to do. But to some persons there may be a tragedy in this line in the recent Social Register: Mudison, Mr. & Mrs. Madison (Gladys Tinkle—Underbunk), C., H. '90—Lexington Avenue.