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CHAPTER II
POLO, HUNTING AND STEEPLECHASING

While busy with my professional duties I found time to amuse myself as well. My friends at the club had put my name up as a member. I was soon elected. You will doubtless smile when I tell you what happened the first time I entered the club as a full member. It had been a very hot day. A visiting team of polo players from the western district of Victoria had battled hard in the afternoon against the Adelaide team. The good game of polo in those days was in its infancy in Australia. A few enthusiasts in Adelaide and some in the wonderfully rich western district of Victoria, the De Littles, Manifolds, Blacks and others who owned thousands of acres of as good country as there is in Australia, kept the game going. An inter-colonial match was arranged. Lance Stirling, now Sir Lancelot, and President of the Upper House, Arthur Malcolm, a thorough sportsman with a keen love for practical jokes, and the two brothers Edmund and Charlie Bowman, were playing for Adelaide. The old veteran, Dave Palmer, St. Quintin, Para Hood and one of the Manifolds represented the western district of Victoria.

It was the custom to celebrate all such occasions as polo matches, big race days, Hunt Club meetings, by holding dinner parties at the club, often attended by fifty or sixty of the younger members, with a sprinkling of the older sports, who thoroughly enjoyed the vivacity and exuberance of the younger men. These were dinners to be remembered, full of joyous spirits, where many amusing incidents used to occur. As the hours of the evening grew late and the early morning approached the fun was at its height. I happened to choose this very particular night for my first visit to the club after my election as a full member. I knew what was going on, and, though I thought it better to avoid going there that night, an irresistible feeling came over me and I succumbed to it. So, at about eleven o’clock I made my appearance. It had been a long time, in fact, not since I had left Melbourne, that I had had a real jolly night. I had held the bit particularly tight between my teeth during my time in the police, and I did feel inclined for a jollification. I got it all right. I was greeted all round with the heartiest welcome. Congratulations on my appointment were showered on me, and in a few minutes I was as recklessly enjoying the fun as they were. While the large dining-room was being prepared for an obstacle race cock-fighting held sway. An amateur orchestra with improvised instruments, coal-scuttles, pots and pans, hair-combs and other similar objects was playing in the back court of the club, in the centre of which there was a fountain. Some enterprising member had offered a prize to anyone who hopped twice round the narrow parapet, surrounding its basin, without falling in, while keeping time to the music. It certainly was difficult to follow the strains of that band. From a very slow and dignified movement the music suddenly broke into the quickest time that ever any tune was played. The result was fatal to the hopper. A bath in the fountain followed. The prize was not won that night. And so the frolic ran on till the early hours of the morning.

I felt somewhat sorry for myself when I turned up next day at the office. I didn’t feel much inclined for work, and I waited patiently for noon to strike to make my way to the club and a large whisky and soda. Lunch-time approached. I began to notice that several of the older members were looking serious and were not so affable as usual. The secretary asked me to step into his office. I did so. He, too, was looking serious. He told me that it had been reported to him that I had on my very first visit, as a member of the club upset the whole place, that my good old friend Mr Hamilton, who lived at the club, had complained bitterly of the noise and disturbance, and was going to ask the committee to cancel my election and practically have me turned out. He himself had been forced to call a special meeting of the committee to deal with the matter. I sat, quiet and sad, by the side of the old fountain. Every now and again one of the chief offenders of the night before would, as he passed me, sympathize with me in my trouble. My misery did not last long. Two or three members of the committee entered the secretary’s office. Presently the secretary beckoned me to his office. Round a table sat three members of the committee. In the centre of the small table was a magnum of champagne and a small bucket of ice. In silence the glasses were filled up. The oldest member of the committee, still as serious as a judge, handed me one. They each helped themselves. Then he spoke: “We have asked you to come here this morning” – and then a smile came over their faces – “to welcome you to the club and to say how happy we are that you have got your appointment.” Thus ended my anxiety, and a few minutes later on the magnum of champagne. I had certainly had my leg pulled.

In view of my duties in connexion with the construction of the new fort I moved to the Largs Bay Hotel. Standing by itself mid-way between the two forts at the shore end of the jetty, the hotel had been completed and opened with much rejoicing. Mr. Hixon was its first manager. No expense had been spared by the company in making it not only comfortable, but luxurious. The winter months were just beginning; there was no attraction to the seaside, and there were but few residents. The monotony of living there was varied two days each week by the arrival of the inward and outward bound mail steamers, that was all. But I was too busy to worry about pleasure; the training of my men at Fort Glanville and the supervision of the construction of Fort Largs kept me busy five days of the week. Saturday and Sunday I devoted to sport and pleasure. The polo season ended with the autumn; hunting began with early winter.

Had anyone told me in the days when I used to be carried into the boats on the good old ship Waipa that within a couple of years I would once again be enjoying playing polo, following the hounds and steeplechasing, I would not have believed them. Yet so it was. The hunting season coming on, I at once set to work to get a couple of good mounts. Good Mother Luck was, as usual, again on my side. A friend of mine, Leonard Browne, who owned Buckland Park Station, about twenty-five miles from Adelaide, offered me one of his station horses. We named him Buckland. He was the soundest and best jumper I ever threw my legs across. He was even better than “Kate Dwyer.” For two seasons he never gave me a fall. I have, for a wager, put up a sheet of corrugated iron six feet long by two and a half feet wide, leaning it slanting against a rest, in the middle of a paddock, and, jumping on Buckland’s back, I would ride him straight at it. He never bothered to go to the right or left of it. The old horse would take it in his stride and sail over it without rapping it. Wire fences were child’s play to him; he got over them just as easily as he negotiated post and rails.

Satan, a thoroughbred I bought after a selling race at Morphetville, was my second string. He had broken down in his near foreleg during the race. He was only three years old, jet black, sixteen hands one, and as handsome as paint. I had named him Satan. I had by this time been asked by the general on several occasions to accompany him as his staff officer at such times as he was making his inspections, and I thought it would be well for me to have a decent charger. The general liked a good horse. Satan was just the horse. I had him for some twelve years. I schooled him to jump, and he took to it very kindly. Many are the miles of road travelling he saved me when later on we were busy with field manœuvres, by his jumping capacities. Satan was not a “Buckland,” but he seldom failed me. So it came to pass that I was able to enjoy many a good day with the hounds on Saturday afternoons; then a good dinner, the theatre, and afterwards a little fun and light-hearted supper and frolic at the club till the early hours of Sunday morning.

What a crowd of real good sportsmen lived in Adelaide in those days! Perhaps the oldest and most respected of the professional sports was Mr. Filgate. Then there was Seth Ferry, who had ridden many a hard race in his life; Saville, as clever with his pencil as he was as a trainer – brother-in-law, I think, of Leslie Macdonald, who afterwards managed Wilson’s stud at St. Albans, Victoria, and on Wilson’s death became an owner himself, and a successful one, too. Revenue won the Melbourne Cup for him, and several other good horses have in late years carried his colours to the front in first-class races. Leslie Macdonald is still a very well-preserved man, a first-class sport, and a good companion. Tom Power was another good trainer, and Johnny Hill, who trained Auraria, the Melbourne Cup winner. The pride of place amongst breeders was then taken by Sir Thomas Elder. The stud farm at Morphetville left nothing to be desired. The renowned chestnut, Gang Forward, and a big-boned bay horse named Neckesgat were the lords of the harem. Some twenty brood mares, descendants of the best strains of thoroughbred stock, had been brought together, and many a good horse which played about as a foal at Morphetville’s beautiful paddocks afterwards won classical races.

Sir Thomas Elder was at this time fairly on the wrong side of fifty. He was a bachelor. He and his brother-in-law, Mr. Barr Smith, were the heads of that well-known firm, Elder, Smith and Co., which was interested in many important concerns, and, inter alia, represented the P. & O. S. N. Co., mail contractors to Australia. This company’s ships called in at Adelaide once a week, the incoming and outgoing mail in turn. Sir Thomas usually invited the captain to his house during the steamer’s stay in the roadstead.

They used to tell of him that though he took the greatest pleasure in the Morphetville stud, he knew but little about horses. Sir Thomas delighted in taking his guests through the paddocks, his manager close beside him. “Now there,” Sir Thomas would say, “isn’t that a fine horse? Now, Mr. Ellworthy, just tell us all about him.” It was generally a her. But when he came to White Arab stallion Mr. Ellworthy’s services were not required. Sir Thomas’s partner, Mr. Robert Barr Smith, might well be named the Grand Old Man of South Australia. He died at a very ripe old age – a charming personality, a shrewd man of business, a most generous citizen whose gifts were munificent, and equalled only by those of his brother-in-law, Sir Thomas. Mr. Barr Smith’s principal home, Torrens Park, some six miles from Adelaide, situated at the foot of the hills, was always open house to his friends. I can never forget the many happy days I spent there, and who, of the many who were privileged to be their friends, can ever forget the charming personality, the sweet ways, and the generous nature of Mrs. Barr Smith?

My pen runs away with me when I think of all my kind friends in those happy days. But let me not forget one family, the Bakers of Morialta. The Hon. John Baker was one of the first citizens of Adelaide to appreciate the value of the Mount Lofty ranges as a home during the summer months. He took up some hundreds of acres in what was at that time bush country up the heights to the north of Mount Lofty. I do not know whether Norton’s Summit, in the neighbourhood of which he purchased the land, was so named when he built his comfortable home at Morialta. The entrance gates into that beautiful domain are just past the village which bears the name Norton’s Summit. The Hon. John Baker was a politician, but he was also a sportsman and a horse breeder. I think I am right in stating that he bred that good horse Don Juan, which started the “King” of Australian bookmakers, Joe Thompson, in his triumphant career. Not to know Joe Thompson in those days in Australia meant not to know Australia. He was the leviathan of the turf, or at least, he became so, and a keen sportsman he was, too. Of all sports horse racing has always the pride of place in Australia, though others flourish there.

To Mrs. John Baker, Mr. Baker’s widow, I owe a deep debt of gratitude. From the time I first arrived in Adelaide she made me welcome at Morialta. Her eldest son, who later on became Sir Richard Baker, President of the Legislative Council of South Australia, was a good sport and a true friend of mine up to the time of his death.

I believe that it was his father who established the first pack of hounds in South Australia. The kennels were at Morialta. At the time I am writing of, Allen Baker, a younger brother of Sir Richard, was Master. I was his best man on his marriage day. I remember it so well, though it was so long ago. He was quite nervous about the whole thing, as he called it, the evening before. I tried to cheer him up. He told me that he particularly wished the clergyman to cut the service as short as possible, and I was on no account to let him “make a speech.” I duly warned the clergyman in the morning, and he took the hint. I fortified Allen with a small bottle of champagne just before the ceremony, which took place at the church at Mitcham. He just got through it, and, as soon as he got out of the church, he jumped up into the four-wheeled dogcart that was waiting for him and, taking hold of the reins, with his pretty bride beside him, drove away as happy as a bird. His nervousness had disappeared.

Perhaps the most enjoyable event of the year in Adelaide was the occasion when the Hunt Club Races took place. The meeting was held at the close of the season, and a right merry meeting it was too. It was a huge picnic, winding up with dinner and theatre parties, dances, and good old suppers. I had nothing good enough to win any race. Buckland was a sure jumper, but not fast enough. Satan’s foreleg would not stand training. However, one never knows one’s luck in steeplechasing, so I sent Buckland to Leslie Macdonald to be trained, and promised myself a real ding-dong jumping day over the big sticks at Morphetville – and I had it, too. The two principal races were the Drag Cup and the Hunt Club Cup – the former about two miles and three-quarters, the latter about four miles. A maiden steeple, a hurdle race and a hunters’ flat race filling up the programme. The best horse at the meeting that year was named Albatross, a jet black, curiously enough, and the property of a good sport, Mick Morris, a Government stock inspector. Albatross had been heavily backed to win the double, the Drag and Hunt Club Cups. I think it was Bob Turner who rode him in the Hunt Club Cup. He had bad luck opposite the grand stand, for he struck the wall hard the second time round and unseated Bob. The race was over as far as Albatross was concerned, and so were the double wagers as far as Mick Morris and his friends were concerned. But Mick and his pals meant to get their money again by backing Albatross straight out for the Drag Cup. Bob Turner had been badly shaken by his fall, and was unable to ride again. Morris asked me to ride him. I had already ridden old Buckland in the Maiden Steeple and Hunt Club Cups some six miles, without being near winning, so I thought I would oblige Morris.

Unfortunately, Albatross being top-weight had a heavy impost to carry, some 13 st. 4 lb. I rode only about 11 st. 6 lb. in those days, so I had to put up some two stones dead weight. The saddle was a heavy, old-fashioned hunting one, and taking it for granted all was well I jumped on Albatross’s back in the saddling paddock and jogged quietly down to the starting point. There were some eight starters. Down went the flag, away we went, and I took Albatross to the front. He was a fine jumper, but he had one fault; he was inclined to run down his fences, and squirm a little when jumping. We went once round the course. We were coming to the wall for the second time just in front of the grand stand and Albatross was moving like a bird. I let him just “gang his ain gait”; nothing behind me could force the pace. He led the field easily, and I felt more than confident that the race was mine. But you never can tell. He came to the wall. He had to shorten his stride in taking it, which made him squirm more than usual. I felt something go; it was my left stirrup leather. The clip holding it to the saddle had been left open, and the wrench of my left leg as Albatross jumped had pulled the leather out. I managed to keep the stirrup iron hanging on to my foot with the end of the leather trailing on the ground as we galloped on. I had hopes I might recover the leather, and by holding on to it with my left hand make some use of it. It was not to be. In my efforts to pick up the leather I had to slow Albatross down. This enabled the other horses to close up to me. There was only one thing to do – let the stirrup go and set Albatross sailing again. This I did. At the next fence – a stiff log one – I was nearly jerked clean off. I had forgotten I was riding with only one stirrup, and, as Albatross swerved in jumping, I all but fell off on the near side. It struck me that if I did not get rid of the other stirrup I would probably be thrown soon, so I got rid of it. I now found myself with about a mile and a half to go, some ten real stiff fences to negotiate, and riding without stirrups. I quite well remember my memory harking back for a moment to the old days of the riding school at Woolwich when old Dan, our riding master, used to call out, “Cross stirrups,” and “Take care” and “’Old on.” Well, it was a case of “’olding on” on Albatross for the rest of that journey. It was soon over. Albatross sailed along. I couldn’t hold him, but kept in on the course. Young Farr on Peter came after me. We raced together at the last fence. Over we went; both landed safely, but I was beat. Farr, sitting comfortably on Peter, led me past the post. The only consolation I had was that I had not been responsible for saddling Albatross. My good old friend Michael Morris, though he had lost his money, thought I had put up a real good fight, and gave me a present of a handsome hunting-crop to remind me of my ride on that good horse Albatross. We had a glorious winding up to that day. The Hunt dinner at the club, a large theatre party, and a dance. Indeed, I was glad when I got to bed at the end of it all.

On the close of the hunting season followed the polo season. It was arduous work to play polo in the heat of the summer, but it could not be helped. The first polo ground was in the park lands inside the Victoria race-course. Now the Polo Club owns a clubhouse and a tip-top ground not far from the city. Ponies were rather difficult to get in those days, and when you did get them there was very little opportunity to train them. It was with difficulty we managed to get one practice game a week with full sides. Several of the members of the Polo Club lived in the country, and it was difficult for them to spare the time to come into town for a game; besides, it was a fairly expensive game. Still, we battled away against all difficulties, and the game of polo was kept going in South Australia while the richer and older colonies of New South Wales and Victoria practically dropped it.

Of recent years polo has become a favourite pastime throughout Australia, especially in many country districts, and after the War will doubtless become one of its national games. At the close of the hunting season I had turned out Buckland and Satan for a long spell, and picked up four or five ponies. I got some stables put up at Fort Glanville. The splendid beach at low tide afforded an excellent practice ground. The season moved along all well; we had only one severe accident. The game in those days began by placing the ball on the ground half-way between the goals. A player from each side was selected to gallop at a given signal from the goal posts to the ball. On the particular afternoon of the accident the two players selected were Tom Barr Smith and George Hawker. By some accident the two rode straight at each other; the ponies met head to head. There was quite a loud report. It was the cracking of the skull of one of the ponies. The pony had to be shot, but no particular harm was done to the riders. As a result of this accident it was decided to alter the rules of the game. This was done, and there was no more wild galloping to start the game. After trying several ponies, I was successful in getting hold of two real good ones. One was a light, cream-coloured mare, descended from a Welsh Taffy imported sire. I called her “Creamie.” She was a flyer. The other, a well-bred little bay, which I named “Kitty,” I bought from the Governor’s A.D.C., Captain Williams.

The polo season closed with a race meeting, just as the hunting season did. The chief event was the Polo Club Cup. I felt fairly confident that I had that year’s cup in my pocket. For some six weeks before the races I had sent Creamie and Kitty to Mr. Ellworthy at Morphetville, who had kindly undertaken to supervise their training. As the result of trials Creamie proved much the faster. Not only that, but she started breaking watch-records. The day of the races came. I had promised Allen Baker, the Master of the Hounds, to have the mount on Creamie. A real good sportsman, Stephen Ralli, was to ride Kitty. I was too heavy myself to tackle the weights. Creamie was made favourite at even money. Kitty started at 20 to 1. Off they went to the post. I think Lance Stirling was starter. There were about eighteen starters. Creamie was next but two to the rails. I had backed her for quite a lot of money, and had told all my friends that I could not see what other pony could beat her. They all put their money on. I had not a sixpence on Kitty. Well, down went the flag. I was in the grand stand with my glasses fixed on the starting point. The first thing I saw was one of the riders turning a somersault in the air. It was Allen Baker. I of course at once lost all interest in the race. I put down my glasses. Down the course came Creamie leading the field riderless. Then I heard the shouting: “Kitty! Kitty wins!” and before I realized it, she had won. Yes, Stephen Ralli had won the cup on Kitty for me. I had lost £300.

My recollections of the introduction of cash betting, as opposed to the system of booking bets “on the nod” in the betting ring on Australian race-courses, are as follows: Not long after my first appointment in Adelaide the annual big racing meeting was held by the Adelaide Racing Club at their course in the park lands, east of the city. Large numbers of the best-known bookmakers from the other colonies were as usual in attendance. Their voices were hardly what could be called musical. As a rule each one gave his own voice some peculiar note, so that their would-be clients could spot their whereabouts in the ring. The result of this chorus was unique as a musical phenomenon.

I think it was the Cup Day. It was fine overhead and hot, yet a charming day. The race for the Cup was next, and the ring was settling down to business. Suddenly, amidst the general uproar, a fine-sounding voice, true and melodious, was heard intoning what at first sounded to most people a church hymn. But it was not a church hymn. It was a new method of shouting out the odds, attracting attention to an exceedingly well-got-up gentleman in a grey frock suit, patent leather boots, white spats, grey gloves, tall white hat, and a flower in his buttonhole. A new bookmaker had made his appearance. He informed the crowds in song that he betted “only for cash,” not “on the nod” – “I pay on the winner, immediately after the race.” It only wanted an organ to accompany him. It was quite amusing to watch the remainder of his brethren in the ring. At first they looked about for the songster; then they laughed; and then set to work fairly to howl him down. It was no use; he managed somehow to make his dulcet notes heard. The new arrival before the end of the day was well known. His experiment had succeeded; it had been a first-class advertisement, and he gathered in many clients.

He left Adelaide for the sister States. Some time afterwards an amusing story went the round of sporting circles. Whether true or not I know not. Here it is. The committee of one of the most important bookmakers’ clubs in Australia had occasion to adjudicate on a charge laid against him for conduct which it was stated rendered him an undesirable member of the club, to the honorary membership of which he had been admitted. The committee, after inquiry, decided to request him to see them, inform him of the charge that had been made against him, ask him if he wished to refute it; if not, it was their intention to cancel his membership. His answer was reported to be as follows: “The charges made against me practically accuse me of behaving like a blackguard. Well, I can be a blackguard – probably a bigger one than any of you are or can be, but however that may be, there is one thing I can be, if I like, but which none of you can ever be, and that is a gentleman. Good morning; I am returning to England to-morrow.”