SIXTY YEARS ON THE TURF 



broker of the name of Powell. In big handicaps he 

 would back many horses with a view to hedging ; 

 and he commonly won a little. But the Cesarewitch 

 of 1850 was a "nose-ender" for him. It was won 

 by Mr. Payne's chestnut filly, Glauca, who figured 

 at 66 to 1. 



" On my oath, Davies," said Powell when her 

 number went up, " I've backed every horse in the 

 race but that." 



" Then, Powell," Davies answered, " I'll bet you a 

 pony you can't whistle two minutes." 



" No bet ! No bet ! I couldn't ! " 



Powell, it must be added, was a notorious whistler. 

 People said the only times he was not whistling were 

 when he was either eating and drinking or sleeping. 

 In truth, his society at times was intolerable 

 through this irritating habit. But Glauca's victory 

 knocked the whistling out of him. 



As I have said, the closing years of Davies's life 

 were clouded ; and I always dated the beginning of 

 his physical collapse from the day he fell through 

 the dilapidated Grand Stand to the weighing room 

 below at the Rochester and Chatham Meeting. It 

 was an extraordinary spectacle — that of Davies 

 dangling, hung up by his arms, and struggling in 

 vain to touch the gi'ound. He was promptly extri- 

 cated, but the shock was severer than the bruises. 



41 



