A Bit of a Gamble Really

Arkwright's Hoof and Horn Products is not the most euphonious name for a racehorse but Mr Arkwright had bought it as an advertisement for his firm, that is the name of the firm and Mr Arkwright could see no other way of making sure that his investment in the horse could be made to serve its purpose. However, Mrs Arkwright had given the horse the pet name of Dobbin and that is the name it generally goes by among those who have close dealing with it.

Dobbin is not a bad horse but he suffers from one major disadvantage as a racehorse - he is always slower than all the other horses he races against. Having said that, he doesn't always come last. In almost half his races he has failed to finish at all. In spite of so much discouragement, Mr and Mrs Arkwright always enjoy their day at the racecourse and the name of Arkwright's Hoof and Horn Products is given some publicity. Perhaps it's just as well that, as the saying goes, "there's no such thing as bad publicity".

Dobbin's trainer is Stanley Entwhistle who happens to drink in the same pub as Mr Arkwright, in fact that's mainly what he does. Stanley Entwhistle does not have a famous establishment nor yet a large one, in fact Arkwright's Hoof and Horn Products (aka Dobbin) is the only horse he has in training at the moment. The jockey usually chosen to ride Dobbin is Larry White. By an amazing coincidence he also drinks in the same pub as Mr Arkwright and he does so just about as assiduously as Stanley Entwhistle. Incidentally, Larry has never won a race either, so it could be said that he is a very appropriate choice as jockey for Arkwright's Horn and Hoof Products.

As you can probably imagine, it is not easy for Stanley Entwhistle to find races in the calendar which may be really suitable for Dobbin, where he might be expected to pull off an audacious, not to say unexpected, victory. A lengthy conference between trainer, owner and jockey, lasting over some 5 or 6 pints in fact, has come up with the third race on the card of the Whit Monday meeting at the small but very select Lower Sluthersdale course - the Fellmonger's Handicap Plate. The reference to a trade so closely related to his own lends the occasion a particular piquancy for Mr Arkwright.

In the days immediately before White Monday the Turf Accountancy Profession at large (aka the bookies) were exercised only slightly by the problem of what odds to offer on Arkwright's Hoof and Horn Products. The unanimous verdict was 100-1 - a remarkable convergence of opinion given such a small field of strikingly modest calibre. Nothing in the subsequent betting did anything to disturb this comfortable complacency. Until, that is to say, the day of the race!

The day itself dawned (as they commonly say) fine and warm. When all were arrived at the course, Mr Arkwright noted with satisfaction the various references to Arkwright's Hoof and Horn Products - on the card, on the Tote and, most particularly, on the bookies' blackboards, even though it was reduced there to AHHP. Even so it gave him a feeling of consequence and a warm glow of satisfaction that the fairly modest outlay he had incurred could give him so much pleasure. Very much the same feeling swelled in the ample bosom of Mrs Arkwright.

Paying scant attention to the first two races, the party adjourned to the owners' beer tent though I'm sure it has a much grander nomenclature). It was probably the meeting with the president of the Fellmongers' Association (the donors of the valuable plate) which triggered Mr Arkwright's professional pride and caused him to project the image of the animal by-products industry quite so forcefully. He embraced the magnificent idea of placing a bet of one thousand pounds on Arkwright's Hoof and Horn Products - on the nose - to win!

"Honest" Fred Smith, Turf Accountant (he was quite oblivious of the irony which might attach to the inverted commas) was probably a little bit befuddled when he accepted the bet. If so, any befuddlement was rapidly dispersed as soon as he realised that he had accepted a liability to pay out £100,000. Admittedly only in the fairly unlikely event of Arkwright's Hoof and Horn Products winning the race, but Fred had been in the racing game long enough to know that anything could happen. The adrenalin surged through is bulky body. Fight or fly. Fred thought of making for his luxurious, though now ageing, Ford Granada. It was on the far side of the car park - what a foolish mistake! No, what a foolish idea! Lay it off, that was the right response. Try it with the big firms - now. He did and succeeded. Even in his relief he'd felt a little foolish - putting five hundred pounds on Arkwright's Hoof and Horn Products. He'd even had to spell it out on the phone. Twice. A tiny voice inside him said, "Go on - there must be something in it" and he was tempted to do it a third time. £50,000 if it came off. He shook inside his mighty frame, swallowed a stiff whisky and dismissed the idea. By the time he was back on his pitch his tic-tac man was semaphoring to him, "AHHP five to two, favourite". Quick - very, very quick. He'd just got away with it.

In honour of the occasion Mrs Arkwright had two pounds on Dobbin with Fred.

After that everything seemed to happen in a blur. Reality was heightened twenty fold. Anything could happen. And it did. (Whiskey chasers can have that effect!)

Arkwright's Hoof and Horn Products came in first by at least four lengths.

No it didn't. Larry fell off at the fourth hurdle and Dobbin wandered off to eat some grass.

But just think of it. There was (or should it be there were?) two hundred thousand pounds riding on that horse. In theory at any rate.

Life's like that. It's a bit of a gamble really.