Sebastian Bach Joses was the son of an artist of Portuguese extraction.
The artist was a waster and a wanderer. In his youth he mated with a Ma.r.s.eillaise dancing-girl who had posed as his model. Joses had been the result. The father shortly deserted the mother, who took to the music-hall stage.
After a brief and somewhat lurid career on the halls in London and elsewhere she died.
The lad had as little chance as a human being can have. As a boy, with the red-gold ma.s.s of hair he inherited from his mother, and a certain farouche air, he had been attractive, especially to women. Clever, alert, and sensitive, brought up in a Bohemian set, without money, or morals, or the steadying factor of position, he had early acquired all the tricks of the artist, the parasite, and the adventurer. He could play the guitar quite prettily, could sing a song, dabbled with pen and brush, and talked with considerable facility of poetry and art.
An old-time admirer of his mother"s, on whom that lady when dying had fathered the boy, paid for the lad"s keep as a child. Later, attracted by the boy"s beauty, and secretly proud of his putative share in it, he had sent him to a college in a south coast watering place and afterward to Oxford.
There Joses had swiftly worked his way into a vicious set of stupid rich men, morally his equals, intellectually his inferiors, but socially and economically vastly his superiors. They were all lads from public schools who desired above all to be thought men of the world. Joses, on the other hand, was a man of the world who desired above all else to be taken for a public-school man.
Each of the two parties to the unwritten contract got what was desired from the other. Joses had knocked about the Continent; he knew the Quartier Latin, Berlin night-life, and the darker haunts of Naples. His rich allies kept horses, hunted, and raced. They learned a good deal that Joses was ready to impart; and on his side he acquired from them some knowledge of the racing world and an entree into it. His manners were good--rather too good; and the touch of the artist and the exotic appealed to the coa.r.s.e and simple minds of his companions. He wore longish hair, softish collars, cultivated eccentricities and a slightly foreign accent; all of which things the _jeunesse doree_ tolerated with a touch of patronage. And Joses was quite content to be patronized so long as his patrons would pay.
After two years at Oxford his putative father died. Joses went down perforce, leaving behind him many debts, a girl behind a bar who was fond of him, and a reputation as a brilliant rogue who might some day prove the poet of the sport of kings.
Equipped with the knowledge acquired at the ancient University, he went to London and there earned his living as a sporting journalist, attending race-meetings, adding to his income by betting, and performing certain unlovely services for the more vicious of his Oxford friends.
Handicapped in many ways, he had at least this advantage over the bulk of his brother-men: that he was not hampered by scruples, principles, or tradition.
At thirty his beauty was already on the wane. He was faded, fat, and tarnished; and already he was visibly going to pieces.
The end, which had been preparing in the deeps for years, came suddenly.
The story was an old one: that of one woman and two men. The three had driven back from Ascot in a hansom together. There was supper, drink, and trouble at the lady"s flat. The other man got a knife in him, and Joses got five years.
When he came out, he resumed his old haunts and earned a precarious living by watching. He was almost the only watcher who could write, and his eye for a horse"s form was phenomenally good. It was in those days that he came into touch with his future employers.
With an acute sense for those who could serve them, the Three J"s realised at once that this man was on a different level to that of other watchers. They financed him liberally, advanced him money, and held a cheque to which in a moment of aberration Joses had signed Ikey Aaronsohnn"s name. And he in his turn served them well if not faithfully.
When Chukkers rode the famous International that established him once and for all in a cla.s.s by himself among cross-country riders, s.n.a.t.c.hing an astounding victory on Hooka-burra from Lady Golightly, his win and the way he rode his race was largely due to Joses"s report on the favourite"s staying power.
"She"ll gallop three and three-quarter miles at top speed," he had said, "and then bust like a bladder. Bustle her all the way, and yours"ll beat her from the last fence."
When Joses was put away for incendiarism, the Three J"s missed him far more than they would have cared to admit. They had two bad seasons in succession, and a worse followed. At the end of the third Chukkers, for the first time for seven years, no longer headed the list of winning jockeys.
Then Ikey carried off his jockey to the States to break his luck.
It was on this visit, at some old-fashioned meeting in the Southern States, so the story went, Chukkers discovered the mare from Blue Mounds. All the world knows to-day how she re-established her jockey"s fame and made her own.
When, after an unforgettable season in Australia, he returned to England with the American mare, the pair had never been beaten. And in the Old Country they repeated the performance of Australia. Together they won the Sefton, the International, and last of all the National. And though Chukkers had been disqualified in the last race, his fame and hers had reached a pinnacle untouched by any horse or man in modern racing history.
The star-spangled jacket led the world.
When Joses came out of prison he journeyed down at once to Dewhurst.
Jaggers and Chukkers met him.
It did not take the tout long to get a hang of the situation.
The National was coming on in a few weeks. The mare had to win at all costs.
Since her victory and defeat at Aintree in the previous March she had never run but once in public, and that time had scattered her field.
Jaggers had been laying her up in lavender all the winter for the great race, and she was now at the top of her form.
They took Joses round to her loose-box.
Just back from work she was stripped and sweating, swishing her tail, savaging her manger with arched neck, tramping to and fro on swift, uneasy feet as her lad laboured at her.
So perfectly compact was she that the tout heard with surprise that she stood little short of sixteen hands. The length of her rein compensated for the shortness of her back, and her hocks and hind-quarters were those of a panther, lengthy and well let-down.
The fat man ran his eye over her fair proportions.
"She"s beautiful," he mused.
Indeed, the excellence of her form spoke to the heart of the poet in him. He dwelt almost lovingly upon that astonishing fore-hand and the mouse-head with the wild eye that revealed the spirit burning within. As her lad withdrew from her a moment, she gave that familiar toss of the muzzle familiar to thousands, which made a poet say that she was fretting always to transcend the restraint of the flesh.
"If she"s as good as she looks," said Joses, "she"s good enough."
"She"s better," said the jockey with the high cheek-bones. He pa.s.sed his hand along the mare"s rein. It was said that Chukkers had never cared for a horse in his life, and it was certain that many horses had hated Chukkers. But it was common knowledge that he was fonder of the mare than he had ever been of any living creature.
"She"s got nothing up against her as I know of," said Jaggers in his austere way. "There"s Moonlighter, the Irishman, of course."
"He can"t stay," said Chukkers briefly.
"And Gee-Woa-There, the Doncaster horse."
"He can"t gallop."
"And Kingfisher, the West country crack."
"He beats himself jumpin"."
"And that"s about the lot--only the Putnam horse," continued the trainer. "They think I know nothing about him. I know some, and I want to know more."
"I"ll settle that," said Joses.
The jockey was pulling the mare"s ears thoughtfully.
"You"d like to take a little bit of Putnam"s, I daresay?" he said.
"I wouldn"t mind if I did," replied the tout.
"It was them done you down at the trial," continued the jockey. "Old Mat and his Monkey and Silver Mug. The old gang."
"Regular conspiracy," said Jaggers censoriously. "Ought to be ashamed of themselves. Doin" down a pore man like that."