“Ah well,” said I, “’tis no easy matter for a young fellow such as myself to travel so far out of town to attend a race such as this. And what’s more,” I added, “being a humble apprentice, I’ve no money of my own to wager.”
“Ah, but I meant no offense,” said he, all smiles once again. “Here, let’s have us another ale, shall we? Innkeeper!”
He called out and waved to him behind the bar. Then, over my protests, he ordered two more ales. By the time they arrived, he had introduced himself to me as Walter Hogg and fetched from me my own name. We talked idly of one thing and another. I recall having told him that Mr. Plummer commented upon his presence, and said that he believed Mr. Hogg attended all his races.”
“He recognized me then, did he?” said Walter Hogg. He seemed as pleased as could be to hear it. “Let me tell you, I’ve won a good bit, putting my money on him.”
At that I could not but laugh. When asked why, I told him that indeed, Mr. Plummer had also said something of the sort.
Mr. Hogg let out a whoop of delight and then cackled. “He said that, did he? Imagine it, would you!” Then, rather inappropriately, he asked, “You said you was an apprentice. What line of work you apprenticing to?”
I thought it an odd question, coming from him, but I saw no reason to lie or evade. “I’m for the law,” said I.
He seemed to be quite impressed by that. “The law, is it? A young fella like you?”
“I won’t always be so young,” said I, quite reasonably.
“Well, that’s true. Who’re you ’prenticing to?”
“I’m reading law with Sir John Fielding.”
“The Beak? The Blind Beak in Bow Street?”
“The very same.”
“Well, what did he want with Mr. Deuteronomy? He ain’t committed no crime, has he?”
It was then, or perhaps just a little earlier, that it occurred to me that this man Hogg was asking too many questions. “I really couldn’t say,” said I to him. “He must have some interest in a case of Sir John’s, but I couldn’t suppose what it was.”
He nodded and fell silent for a moment-which gave me time enough to glance up at the clock and let out a yelp of dismay.
“Dear God,” said I, “Just look at that clock, will you?”
“Look at it? What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s the time. Why, I was to meet my chums ten minutes ago. They’ll be quite angry with me, I fear. Sorry, Mr. Hogg, but I fear I must be going.” I slid off the stool and began backing off toward the door.
“Oh, oh yes. I understand. I’ll be looking for you when the races begin.”
“Awfully good talking to you, but I must go find them now.”
Calling to me that he understood, he waved a goodbye to me as I escaped through the door. And there I was, ready to rush cross Uxbridge whether Mr. Baker be there or not.
Preparations for the race were much farther along. Riders were on their mounts, circling them about as they warmed them for the first heat. Those horses scheduled for later heats were walked round by their grooms. There were horses, touts, jockeys, oddsmen, bettors, and watchers quite everywhere. The level of shouting and talking had risen to a level I would not earlier have supposed to be possible. The number congregating in this corner of the Common had tripled, perhaps quadrupled, in the hour or so during which I had been inside the Elephant and Castle. How was I to find Mr. Baker in such a crowd of people? or, for that matter, Deuteronomy Plummer?
I plunged into this great, milling mob of people and crisscrossed it a couple of times, looking for a familiar face, hoping to find one before more strangers came and added to my difficulty. Yet, as it happened, ’twas not I who was the finder, but another who found me. I recall discovering myself trapped in an unyielding knot of bettors surrounding an oddsman who shouted his numbers louder than all the rest. Since I could not move, I remained in place, listening to him chant in the manner of an auctioneer as he went down the listings on his slate. In this sense, I was reminded by him of the arcane activities of the patrons of Lloyd’s Coffee Shop in the City of London.
I felt a hand upon my shoulder and a squeeze, at which I turned to find-not Mr. Baker, as I half-expected, but rather Constable Patley.
“If you’re thinkin’ of putting down a wager, Jeremy,” said he to me in a voice strong enough to be heard by one and all, “you’d do well to do it with another who gives better odds. This fella just shouts the loudest.”
There was a round of laughter at that. I joined in, but the oddsman certainly did not. As his audience fell away and began drifting off in every direction, he looked darkly at Mr. Patley and snarled some quite incomprehensible malediction at him.
“And right back at you, sir,” responded Mr. Patley to him. And then, to me, he said: “Come along, Jeremy. We’ve got us a good place to watch from.”
And he then guided me along the course to one of the horse carts placed there as a marker on the way. He was right. The cart provided an excellent view of the race course, and the two Bow Street Runners, my companions, were incomparably well-informed guides to the sport. Nor was I surprised by their knowledge, for Mr. Baker was well known in Bow Street for his love of the turf; and it did but stand to reason that Mr. Patley, who had done army service in the King’s Carabineers, a mounted regiment, would bring with him his equine interests into civilian life. The two men carried on long-running debates on the virtues of this horse or that, or one jockey or another. In sum, I could not have found two better teachers in all of London.
My education began with a question.
“Tell me, Jeremy,” said Mr. Baker, “is this your first time out to a race?”
I admitted that it was so, and, in my defense, offered about the same excuses I’d given to Mr. Hogg when he asked me if I had ever seen Deuteronomy Plummer race. All that I had said was true, of course, yet what was also true was that I simply had not had the right sort of occasion to do so.
“Well, you come to the right place to start,” said Mr. Patley.
“Why? Is this one expected to be a specially good one?”
“Oh, it’ll be good enough,” he assured me. “There’s a lot of good horses and a lot of good riders. But that ain’t really what I had in mind.”
“What then?”
“Well, this right here-the Shepherd’s Bush Common-is about the best, and cert’ny the longest course round London.”
“Just look at it,” put in Mr. Baker as he gestured toward the large expanse before us. “There’s a full eight acres here the way it’s laid out. And when horses make it four times round carrying their riders, that’s quite a stretch for them.”
“I can see that,” I assured him.
“Only thing wrong with it,” said Patley, “is that it’s laid out kind of peculiar.”
“Peculiar in what way?”
“Take a look at it. See? It goes from the start, to there, to up here where we are, and then back to the start again. In other words, it’s a triangular course.”
“They laid it out that way to make it long as they could,” said Mr. Baker, “but it makes for an awful big scramble and pileup here.”
“Where?” I asked, not quite understanding.
“Right here, where we are in this horse cart. See, Jeremy, this cart where we’ve taken our places to watch all, this serves as the ‘Distance Post.’ They’ve all got to go round it and sometimes it gets kind of crowded. If they fail to circle it, or haven’t circled it by the time the leader has made one full tour of the course, then they must drop out of all the following heats. You understand now, don’t you?”
“Oh, well, yes-yes, of course.” Or so I said. In truth, I had understood only a portion of it. Yet, it seemed to me that I should understand quite all after I had watched a heat of the race run.
“Good lad,” said both together in what seemed a single voice.
I hung over the side of the cart and studied the final preparations for the race at some distance. Two drummer boys beat a rat-tat-tat upon their drums, signaling that the horses were to come forward to the starting line.