SIXTY YEARS ON THE TURF 



the absence of my uncle, of one Mr. Tim Kelly, a 

 tall, burly Irishman (as would be guessed by his 

 name), singularly active of body, with a mind of 

 sporting bent, and " keen as mustard " on getting 

 the better of a bargain. He came with feathers to 

 sell. And he did not, " in any shape or form," give 

 them away. No ; he sold them. They were good 

 feathers — very good feathers indeed. But I did 

 not, for my uncle's interests, desire such a loading 

 of sand in the lower sections of the bags as I later 

 discovered. Mr. Kelly appeared very satisfied with 

 the sale, and then, his eye falling on Bell's Life, he 

 asked if I betted. He quickly, I think, learnt that 

 whatever the deficiencies of my education in the 

 proper manipulation of feathers for sale I was fairly 

 familiar with Turf matters. 



It was, I well remember, the Goodwood Stakes 

 day of 1847 ; and I thought that Hydrangea, who 

 had run second a fortnight earlier for a Gold Cup at 

 Stamford, held a winning chance. During a walk 

 on the pier I told Kelly this, whereupon he offered 

 me a " pony to three " against Lord Exeter's fiUy, 

 who won comfortably from Plaudit, starting at 15 

 to 2. I was able to tell Kelly of the result before 

 evening, but he refused to believe till I showed him 

 a telegram. "Communication by wire" was then 

 an uncommon because expensive process, the minimum 



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