My Jockeys. 203 



picked up badly shaken ; but he struggled against his pain. 

 He tried to ride at exercise and do his work as usual ; but 

 he caught cold and got worse. Mr Stevens wished him to 

 ' lay up ' ; but he made light of his trouble. One morning 

 he kept so very still that a servant who was passing through 

 the room looked at him, and found that the boy was dead. 

 We were terribly shocked at the news, the bitterness of which 

 I had felt in anticipation when I said good-bye to him. The 

 worst of it was that he had told me his mother was living ; but 

 I forgot to get her address. I have told his story here in the 

 sad hope that she may at least know that in the strange land 

 where he died, he had warm and attached friends who deeply 

 mourned his loss. 



My jockeys were inclined to be unlucky. One of them, 

 poor Mickey Miley, whose father used to train on the Cur- 

 ragh, and who was formerly well known in Ireland as a clever 

 light weight, went ' on the spree,' got small-pox and died. 

 Mick belonged to a lovable, easy-going type of Irishman. 

 ' He wouldn't hurt a fly ' ; 'he would give you the coat off 

 his back ' ; he had nice manners ; was anxious to oblige ; 

 and would do anything one asked him, except to look after 

 his own interests. Young Mr Malitte, who was on the staff 

 of my paper, and who also lived with us, was one of the best 

 non-professionals in India, and could ride 7 st. 10 lbs. without 

 wasting. He got killed by accident when riding a training 

 gallop. Geo. Gooch, a famous old-time Indian jockey, on 

 whom I tried various infallible systems for the cure of in- 

 ebrity, at last 'broke out' again. When he came to himself, 

 he showed his repentance by taking poison ; but was brought 

 round sufficiently to enable him to spend the remainder of his 

 days in a workhouse. In India, any fairly good jockey who 

 can ride 8 stone will do well ; provided he keeps steady ; but 

 that's the difficulty. As a rule, to quote the old wheese: they 

 eat, and they drink, and they die, and then they write home 

 and say that it is the climate that kills them. 



As I had learned a little about photography soon after I 



