Thu, Jul 30, 1903 – 2 · Henry County Democrat (Clinton, Missouri) · Newspapers.comI enjoy imagining that long ago afternoon or evening reading by Mary Lee Hill to some audience. A time before radio, before television, before the internet. Public elocution was a popular and common form of entertainment.
But what is this story, How The La Rue Stakes Were Lost? Never heard of it. A bit of searching shows it to have been published in here in Lippincott's Monthly Magazine Volume 56.
I found another version, and probably the one rendered by Miss Mary Lee Hill in Shoemaker's Best Selections for Readings and Recitations. Volume 24. Apparently a popular source of readings back at the turn of the last century.
Having read the story, I understand its popularity. Improbable and predictable from start to finish but so effective in moving the reader.
How The La Rue Stakes Were Lost
“PARDON me for disturbing you, sir, but there is a little fellow here who's called about a dozen times to see you.” MacMasters was standing in the doorway of Mr. Burnett's study. “We’ve sent him away always, but he keeps coming back, sir. He won't tell us what he wants. Says he must see you, because it's very important. He's a little English lad, I think, and he has one of your cards, the style you used when we were across last fall. He says his name is Hodge, sir.”
“Yes, sir, if you please — Billy 'odge.” And little Billy, who had followed the man noiselessly up the stairway, struggled to the front.
“Well, my little man,” remarked Burnett, smiling down at him over his shoulder, “what did you want to see me for, and where did you get this card?”
“It's one you gave me dad, sir, over in England. 'E was a jockey, if you please, sir, an’ ’e were comin' to ride for you.”
“Oh, yes. Yes, yes, I remember. And where is your father ?”
“‘E’s dead, sir. Died comin' over. 'E 'adn’t been well for some years, sir, and the steamer doctor said 'e'd trained finer'n 'e could stand. 'E was buried at sea, sir.”
“And are you all alone over here, without any friends?”
“Only me mother, if you please, sir. I’ll be 'avin to support 'er now.”
“That's so; you will,” responded Burnett, with the shade of amusement as courteously concealed as if he had been discussing the great game of base ball with the Chinese Minister. “And what is your particular profession?”
“I 'aven't none, sir; but if you please, sir, me father always said I was 'andy with 'osses.”
“You inherit it, I presume. I’m sorry your father's dead. It's hard to lose fathers. He was one of the best men in a crowd after the pole, MacMasters, I ever saw.” And young Burnett mused so long over the treasure he had lost that the younger Billy ventured to break in:
“Don’t you need another lad around your stables, sir?”
“Why, I don’t know, I’m sure. A boy can’t support his mother unless he has something to do, can he?”
“No, sir.”
“Where are you now?”
“We 'as a little room down-town, sir, but we 'asn't much money left, an’ the chap wot owns it 'e says I'll 'ave to 'ustle round an' get the rent, or hout we goes.”
“Well, well, that is a financial crisis, isn't it?”
“I ain't just sure wot that is, sir, but I knows it's bloody tough.”
“They all are, these financial troubles. — MacMasters, you might run down with this lad and see if what he says is all straight; and if it is, pay up their rent for a few weeks, and then take him up to the stables and tell Mr. Yorke to give him something to do. He may make a rider yet.” And the young Mr. Burnett turned to his letters once more.
MacMasters found everything “all straight” at Billy's home. When it became known at the stables that Mr. Burnett himself had engaged the lad he promptly became an object of considerable envy among the little family of stable-boys, rubbers-down, and exercisers. Mr. Yorke soon discovered, too, that Billy was, as he had said, “’andy with 'osses,” and he gave the boy considerably more latitude than he did the rest of the underlings, particularly after the day when the owner visited the stables, and, recognizing his young importation, had spoken to him kindly, and whispered to Mr. Yorke that it would be a great thing if Billy the younger should prove to have inherited certain talents from his father.
Billy was a grateful little chap, and, next to his mother, he worshiped his young master with a devotion which was as sincere as it was unknown to the owner of Seltzer.
Next after these came Seltzer herself. It was a curious affection which sprang up between the promising mare and the lad, and it dated almost from the very moment that the animal had been assigned to Billy to care for and exercise.
A splendid mare was Seltzer, and great things were expected of her. What hours Billy spent in fussing over the thoroughbred's toilet! And then the glory of the early morning exercise spin and the warming up before Humber, the jockey, got around to put in the fine work on the mare's training.
“There's things I knows about that mare wot even 'Umber don’t,” he had remarked to Mr. Yorke one day after he had made a little private test of Seltzer's gait on the stretch of the practice track which lay around out of sight behind the woods. And Mr. Yorke had only smiled good-naturedly.
It was the evening before the great race for the La Rue stakes, and all the town, seemingly, was waiting on the result. Seltzer was a big favorite, with David only a point less popular, Rainbow next, Max O'Rell next, and a big field, with some rumors of “dark horses.”
Billy was asleep, curled up like a little ball in his bed, when he awoke suddenly to find Burnett bending over him.
“Don’t be alarmed, my boy,” said his employer, kindly, as the lad rose up quickly in a tremor of apprehension. “Do you suppose that you could ride Seltzer in the race to-morrow?”
Billy was too much surprised to speak, and could only gaze open-mouthed.
“What do you think?” remarked young Burnett, smiling.
“I don't know, sir. I could ride 'er, you know, sir, all right, but I don't know whether I could ride 'er to win or not, sir. I’d like mighty well to try, sir. An' I'd try 'ard, sir, bloomin’ ’ard.” And as the lad became more and more awake to a realization of what it all meant, his voice became eager, almost pleading.
“Yorke says that no one can ride Seltzer unless she is well acquainted with them, and that, for six months, only you and Humber have had much of anything to do with her.”
“We knows each other, Seltzer and me do, all right, sir. She's a wonder, sir, Seltzer is. W’y, that 'oss, that 'oss — w'y — ” And Billy's command of superlative language proved so inadequate that he paused, gasping for fitting eulogy.
Burnett laughed. “Then you think she'd do as much for you as she would for any one?”
“I’m sure she will. But Mr. 'Umber—is 'esick?”
“Well—eh—no; at least not yet; but I’m going to see him to-night, and — eh — he's going to decide not to ride. I’ve heard to-night that he's been placing bets against the mare, and that looks very much as if he meant to lose the race for me.”
“But the association, sir. 'E's carded to ride. I saw it posted all over, ‘SELTZER (‘Umber hup), an’ four of the evenin’ papers tips Seltzer for a winner, an’ two more tips 'er for second place.”
“I’ll be able to fix that all right yet to-night. I'm on the way now. I shall depend on you, Billy. You'll do your best for me, won't you?”
“Indeed I will, sir, an' I'll ask Seltzer to do 'er best too, sir.”
“All right. I trust you, remember. Now, you won’t see me until after the race. Mr. Yorke will understand, and take care of you about your colors and all that. These are the only instructions for you to remember: Let her go for the first quarter then if you are well up among the leaders hold her in a bit until you round into the stretch, and then push her to win. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“They're off!”
The flag had dropped almost before Billy had expected, and the race for the La Rue stakes began.
At the first turn it is Rainbow, Max O’Rell, David, and Seltzer, with the field bunched close behind. Billy drew a poor position for the start, but he has pushed Seltzer for the pole at the turn in an almost miraculous way. He is lying close over the mare's neck, and is talking to her eagerly: “Run, darlin', run. We've got to win. We've jest got to. Dad's watchin' us, you know. Go! Hi! Hi! Go!”
The mare seems to understand, for she almost flies. Past David, past Max O'Rell, past Rainbow, a length ahead as the quarter-pole flashes by. Now, little by little, the mare drops back again. Billy is following instructions. It's taking big chances, he thinks, in his secret soul, to do it. It wouldn’t be his way; but it's what Mr. Burnett said.
The terrible pace is beginning to affect the temporary leaders. Max O'Rell and Rainbow are being outfooted by the rushing David. Now he is ahead, and Rainbow and Max O'Rell and Seltzer are abreast close behind. But Billy has taken advantage of the momentary lead to snatch the pole, and is close behind the leader. Now they are near the last turn. Rainbow and Max O’Rell are beginning to pound heavily, and are dropping farther and farther back. But what black nose is this which has come up close to Seltzer's flank? Billy glances around. Wonder of wonders, it is Mortality—a rank outsider. It looks as though there was to be a surprise-party. Inch by inch the new-comer is gaining. How Billy longs to get into the home-stretch, so that he can push the mare a bit! Mortality is coming on like a whirlwind. David is close ahead. Seltzer will be in a pocket in another dozen yards, with too short a distance left to go round on the outside, keep up the pace, and have an even show at the finish. It must be now or never, instructions or no instructions. He loosens up on the mare, calls to her, taps her lightly, and feels her respond as she straightens out under him.
They gain a foot or two, but still Mortality hangs close at Billy's saddle and David's tail brushes Seltzer's nose. It isn't enough. Something must be done, quick.
“Forgive me, ol' girl,” ejaculates Billy, as he raises his whip and, with almost a sob that he is obliged to do it, brings the lash down sharply on the mare's flanks. With a maddened bound she springs ahead, her ears laid back and her nose stretched out almost on a line with her neck. Billy swings her out, and they come straining down the stretch, with the mare gaining inch by inch on the leader; now she is on his quarter — the saddle; a few bounds, and it is neck and neck.
Mortality has swung out, and is following close behind, third from the pole. The wire is terribly near. Whoever wins will win by a short head.
Suddenly something happens. A nurse-girl with her escort down close by the fence has become too deeply interested, and her little charge has toddled out upon the track, and stands piteously helpless right in the path of the flying racers. Billy sees it all in an instant — the horrified expression on the nurse-girl's face and the dazed look of the little toddler on the track ahead. He can guide Seltzer around her, he thinks, but nothing can save the baby from the rushing “field” behind.
What can he do? A single false move, and the race is lost. It won't be his fault if the child is crushed, anyway, and to win the race means so much. But, someway, something in the appealing face of the baby makes him think of the little sister asleep in the tiny English church-yard so far away over the water, and — he can't help it, he must do something. But what?
Like a flash he remembers a picture he once saw of a brave hussar who snatched a little child from in front of a flying regiment of horse; but this was so different. He knew he would fail; but he must try. With one hard pull on the reins he drops them, and with a cry to Seltzer he slips his left foot through the stirrup and draws the slender iron up to his knee, kicks his other foot clear, and throws himself wildly to the right, straight down over the horse's side. There he hangs, by one knee, head down, his arms outstretched, and his little body swinging wildly against the racer's side at every bound.
Seltzer falters in her pace and drops back. With a wild sweep of his arms Billy clasps the little form close and lifts the baby clear of the ground as the horses hurl by. The strain is a terrible one, and he can only drag himself up a little way. His leg is almost broken by the sharp stirrup. He can only bend himself up as far as possible, close his eyes, and hold tight. He hears the wild shouts from the crowds as David sweeps by, a winner. On they go, for it seems a mile, but in reality only a dozen rods. Seltzer slackens and stops. A dozen stable-boys are springing at her head. Some one snatches the baby from his arms, and Billy drops down and steals hurriedly away to a quiet corner of the stables. It has all come over him now. Seltzer has lost. His dreams of making a name for himself are gone. Mr. Burnett will never allow him to ride again. His head is whirling yet. He feels deathly sick. Every thing looks black, and he wishes he were dead.
Sinking down on the straw, he buries his face and sobs as though his faithful little heart would break.
“Well, young man.”
It is Mr. Burnett.
Billy does not look up.
“I’m sorry I lost the race, sir,” he sobs. “I couldn't 'elp it, you know, sir. She'd 'a' been killed, sir — the baby.”
“Well, I should say she would. And how in heaven's name it happened that you weren't beats me.”
“I’m sorry sir, I didn't win.”
“Eh? What? — didn't win? Why, boy, I'd rather have my jockey do that thing than have my horses win a dozen races. Yes, a hundred,” adds young Mr. Burnett, after computing the matter more carefully.
“But the money, sir, wot's been lost?”
“Not a cent, except the purse. All bets on Seltzer declared off. Come along up in the stand, now; they’re all howling for you.”
And Billy went.
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