54 SPORTING STORIES 



and a charge o' cavalry," he growled to a friend ; " and as 

 to a jostle, he don't know the meaning o' the word. Wasn't 

 his father or grandfather hanged ? " 



" No, certainly not," replied the other ; " but his uncle 

 was shot." 



" Ah ! I thowt it was soomat o' th' sowrt, an' its mooch of 

 a moochness 'tween hangin' an' shootin'. But I tell 'ee 

 he'll niver do for th' Turf: he may be well enough for a 

 general to lead on soldier chaps, but he'll never do for the 

 Turf ; he wants it here, " pointing to his forehead, " he ain't 

 got the brains for t/iai." 



Among the jockeys of the old school few stood so high 

 in estimation, whether for professional or social qualities, 

 as Bill Scott. In his palmy days, when he had won more 

 St Legers than any other of his craft, besides several Derbys, 

 Oaks, and a host of other races, he had a house flanking 

 the entrance to Knavesmere, where he dispensed hospitality 

 right heartily, and at race times lords, legs, cits, country 

 friends, and brother trainers and jockeys were seen alike at 

 his well-spread board. But it was over a pipe and a glass 

 of grog among his friends that Bill was seen at his best. 

 A certain Captain Frank Taylor of the neighbourhood, a 

 small owner of racehorses, which Scott trained, was fre- 

 quently to be found with his feet under Bill's mahogany, 

 and the trainer was as often at the Captain's quarters. 

 The two together were a fund of amusement to their 

 intimates. In the early part of the evening Taylor would 

 address the jockey in a bland, half-patronising manner as 

 " William." But as the strong waters began to flow, th^e 

 little round-shouldered jock in the corner, with his feet on 

 the hob, and the gouty old dragoon officer packed in a 

 huge arm-chair, became wonderfully familiar. William 

 was shortened into Billy, and the Captain curtailed into 

 " Frank." With each succeeding glass the familiarity 

 increased, until Billy would shout : 



" I say, Frank, you hairy old devil — do you hear ! I'll 

 run a grey hunter I've got in York for a thousand against 

 that damned impostor Anderby of yours. Damme ! Til 

 lay you fifteen hundred to ten, and stake the money now." 



At this sally from the chimney-corner the Captain 



