I am getting an old man, and have been a betting man and bookmaker all my life, so to speak. My parents were poor people, but respectable. I had a National School education. When I was about twelve years of age I was turned out in the world as an errand-boy at 1s. 6d. a week in a general warehouse. I stayed there for a number of years, until at nineteen years of age I was a full-blown warehouseman earning £1 per week! I was a sharp, intelligent young fellow, kept my eyes and ears open, which, I can tell you, I have done all my life (you need to as a bookie, I can tell), and I soon made up my mind that the quid a week in a stuffy warehouse, long hours, hard work, and little prospect of “going ahead,” would not suit me. A lot of my chums used to “horse-race,” “put a bit on,” “get up sweepstakes,” and go to a race meeting now and again. In this way I was first introduced to a race-course, and was successful in winning a bit now and then, but as sure as faith losing it again, and more too. My first impression of a race meeting was a very bad one, for I could see that it was a vast assembly of “wrong uns” to the backbones—thieves, sharps, pickpockets, lowest of the low ruffians and scoundrels—my opinion is but little better of the present race meetings. My brother bookies would endorse my candid opinion, I am sure. The race meetings of the present time, of course, are far superior in comfort and convenience to the old meetings, but the same villainy and cheating is ever rampant; but let us call it now “refined rascality.”
Well, I was wide enough awake to soon see that “backing” was no good, but that bookmaker was the “game.” I soon found a way to start with a pal similarly inclined in views. I wasn’t going to stick at a quid a week when I could see ten times that sum easily to be made. At that time bookies were allowed to rig up in any costume they liked, so we had red waistcoats, white plush hats, blue and green parti-coloured coats, etc. etc.
I was soon “at home” at the “game.” I was sharp and cautious, with but little capital, so, for a time, our rule was “small bets only.” Lor! how the coin came in! seldom did we have a losing day. Well! to sum up my many years of experience, money has ever since rolled in. I have long since been in a position to take any bet you like, from half a sov. to thousands, “with pleasure,” and “thank you.” Money soon became no object to me, nor is it now. How comes it thus? One answer only. Because betting is a one-sided game, and is almost wholly against the backer. Thus the “bookmaker,” be he a ready-money bookie on the course or a S.P. bookie at home, is as certain in the long run to “cop” the backer’s coin as I am writing this. To be sure, the bookie attending the meetings can control his liabilities to a certain extent, which a starting-price bookmaker cannot do; but really it matters little—the bookmakers get the cash in the long run. Let me say that I am referring to substantial well-known bookmakers, and not to the crowd of penniless welshers who infest every race meeting held.
I am writing, as I have said, more particularly for the benefit of backers; they can adopt my advice or not, as they please. Now listen. I have attended every race meeting held in the land over and over again. I am as well known in sporting circles as any man could possibly be known, from the highest in the land to the lowliest, so to speak; my betting transactions amount to thousands and thousands—I really cannot say how much. I am known, and properly so, as a very wealthy man—money is nothing to me—and let me candidly and truthfully tell you that I have never known a backer of horses to permanently succeed. The backer is successful so long as his money, pluck, and luck lasts, or until ruin has overtaken him. He wins and loses—wins and loses. He is up and then down—up and down. Hope! hope! hope! prompts him to go on; and he goes on. He diligently studies all kinds of plans and systems; he also fools his money away with “tipsters,” who have been described as a set of race-course harpies; every system, all of them of course, certain and sure. He tries “1st favourites,” “2nd favourites,” “1st and 2nd favourites,” “newspaper tips,” “newspaper naps,” “jockey’s mounts,” and numbers of other plans and systems—some his own particular fancy, and some other people’s. He gluts over sporting news, and talks of owners, trainers, and jockeys in a most familiar style, as though they were his own personal friends! He becomes acquainted with horses’ names and pedigrees, and eventually his mind is so full of Turf matters that business, his occupation, and employment become of second importance; he sacrifices home, comfort, occupation, and money—all! all! all! What for? In the hope of easily making money, but in the end for the benefit of the bookmakers. My experience is not an isolated one, but truthfully is that of every well-known bookmaker on the Turf.
Betting is a fascinating vice, and it is perfectly astounding to what an enormous extent it is rooted throughout the land. In every town, village, hamlet, warehouse, office, and workshop in the kingdom you will find the “backer” in thousands and thousands, all losing money—all in the net of the bookmaker. Can you blame the bookmaker for carrying on his money-making business? Why, every one’s answer is “Certainly not!”
Were the race meetings always to be held at the same place, the bookies’ business would practically be “all up.” For why? The local backers would soon all be “played out.” The very fact that the race meetings are changed daily and are miles and miles apart is a veritable god-send to the bookmaker, the trainer, the jockey, the owner, and the dozens of others depending for existence on Turf matters. We thus get daily hundreds, nay thousands, of new faces and fresh backers full of excitement and hope, having “splendid tips” and “certainties,” all ready and anxious to invest their cash with us, but, alas! the majority of whom go home with long faces and empty pockets, whilst the bookmaker and the “betting brigade” leave the scene of action with renewed energy, high glee, and above all cash ammunition for a fresh attack at another rendezvous.
This glorious state of things goes on day by day and year by year, particularly during the flat-racing season. Now, I think it is a bad week if during flat racing I do not clear a hundred or so per day on the average. Some days, but really very few indeed, I make a loss, but on other days the coin rolls in all round, and the average is as I have stated. I have made as much as £5000 in one day! How is that, eh? I am wise enough, of course, to make my book to win, not to lose. Still, with heaps of money in hand, with property here and there—with everything in abundance that I and mine may require or could possibly wish for—with grand country and town houses, with horses, carriages, every possible luxury, every wish and desire gratified, living up to the greatest state of expensive excitement every day (the bookie’s very existence compels a constant round of amusement and excitement or we are nowhere), still, mind you, I am not happy—sometimes far from it. Conscience will make itself heard. True! true! age is telling on me as even it is telling on many another bookie, and we cannot stifle the thought that the grave is in sight, and our last race will soon be run. Often and often am I troubled with thoughts of the past—memory will assert itself—and the questions arise:—Have I led a fair and upright life? Have I got my money and living in an upright, honourable manner? Have I not helped to ruin hundreds of good silly fellows? Visions of them crop up from time to time; I think of them with any but pleasant feelings. How many poor foolish backers whose money I have taken—taken as a business, of course—have lost homes, business, and all; whose wives and children have been turned into the streets through the father’s passion for betting? How many of them have found their way to gaol through betting, and how many have sought self-destruction?
Such must be the occasional thoughts of all old bookmakers. And for why? Because there is not one of us, past and present, who has not over and over again obtained our money by questionable means, even if our inclination was not to do so. We have been, and are compelled—yes, compelled!—to participate in trickery and deceit to the detriment of the backer; and so crops up the thought that the backers’ money in many instances is not obtained honourably. These facts make one feel uneasy. What does this mean? Why, I have in my time secretly paid away much money as contributions to effect certain ends favourable to the bookmaker and to the loss of the backers.
The “freemasonry” amongst certain people connected with racing matters is very strong indeed. Pray let me be very plain in making myself clear. I do not for a moment cast a slur upon or raise the slightest suspicion upon the host of honourable men of high position and standing whose names are identified with Turf matters. Certainly not; the reader’s own common-sense and knowledge must be exercised. But amongst certain actors at race meetings my accusation is levied. Indignantly denied! Of course it will be. We are all upright and honest until discovered to be otherwise. It is the being discovered that is so galling. I could relate to you most startling facts upon these points—incredible, you would say; scandalous, wholly unbelievable! Yet, my friends, true, true indeed! My mouth, however, is so far absolutely sealed. Think yourself how very easy such things could be arranged, and you will cease to marvel. Consider for a moment that all the principal actors at a race meeting are all personally known to each other—old chums, old acquaintances, travelling the country together and enjoying themselves, and you will fail to discredit the fact, viz. that it is so extremely easy to (as it is now termed) “engineer a great coup.”
What is the real meaning of this pretty modern expression? Why, in plain language, it is arranging “to win a race.” Listen! What think you? There are very many unfairly run horse-races. Take this statement as gospel from one who knows, but who cannot divulge the secrets of the Turf. Listen again. Betting is simply a speculative business, two parties to a bet. Each tries to win the other’s money, and each party adopts the best expedient to do so. We all know who does win in the long run, and I am penning this rigmarole to show, if possible, to the small sportsman that the odds against him are so tremendous that it is next to impossible for him to win—I mean in the long run—and I so write in the hope of inducing him to “turn the game up” once and for ever, which I am sure would save much frightful distress, save the wrecking of many a home, prevent much trouble, and would be to the happiness of thousands who now waste their hard-earned money in a wilful way and in impossible successful speculation.