" PRETTY POLLY STYLE " 



with fifty to five, followed up by forty to five, as 

 at that particular moment I was not what might 

 be termed relatively "betting." It will be a lasting 

 memory how, owing to the heat or a slight haze, when 

 the lot got away, we thought it was a false start. We 

 saw something out one hundred yards in front by 

 itself. But it was no false start, it was simply the 

 incomparable Pretty Polly out by herself smashing 

 up her field — which included John o' Gaunt, if you 

 please — and sailing home in what I designated on the 

 following Monday, "Pretty Polly style." It was a 

 coined phrase, but one which was to become current. 

 The only way I have seen races won since were those 

 victories of the Tetrarch as a two-year-old. But 

 Pretty Polly, save twice, was never pressed and — place 

 aiux! (/«m^.9— nothing has ever approached that form 

 of hers. 



She took such a hold of the public, and of myself, 

 that I am sure I was not the only one to curse or cry 

 the day she met with inexplicable defeat in the Prix 

 du Conseil Municipal from Presto II., an ex-selling 

 plater. I went down to Folkestone to the Pavilion 

 Hotel the night before she was due to arrive. There 

 was a howling gale; two ships were ashore within 

 sight ; the life-boat was out and the rocket apparatus 

 rescuing Dutchmen (foreign sailors). This was nice 

 weather, I thought, for a great race-horse to cross; 

 for, knowing the sea for many years, there was the 

 certainty that if the gale moderated there would be a 

 bad swell after it. 



The late Alec Waugh, one of the most delightful of 

 men, had been asked to take charge of this priceless 

 mare. The next day he determined that it was no 

 day for her to go, this decision being arrived at when 

 she was taken out of her box on arrival. But Waugh 



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