 | Saratoga in 1901 |  |
Saratoga
Preparing for the Great Race
Congress Hall, July 11.
As usual, on the 11th of July, Saratoga
is not very full. The great hotels are
sparingly populated, and there is an air
of waiting about everything. Mr. Rodgers and Frank Hathorn
stand behind the desk with pens behind their ears and await
patiently the coming of the wonted guests. The great parlors
look lonely enough, and Bernstein's music sounds like the roar
of the sea upon the desolate winter beach at Long Branch.
The great races commence to-morrow, the coaches will come
loaded to-night, and morning will find the scene changed from
the deserted halls of Pompeii to a Roman convocation.
PEEP IN THE MORNING.
At four o'clock this morning (think of it, lazy reader!), I
left Congress Hall and rode out to the track with Gen. Buford
to see the last working of the horses before the races to-morrow.
Though early in the morning, all the horsemen were on hand.
their stop-watches, taking down the exact time of
each horse to within a quarter of a second.
The first on the track, a little after daylight, was
Belmont, in person, with Kingfisher and his trainer.
The agent of the Rothschilds was preparing for the grandest race
which has ever or will ever take place on this continent, and a
race on which will be staked untold thousands. That white-haired
old wizzard, half concealed behind a post, and holding an
old black silver stop-watch, is John Harper, the owner of Longfellow,
who has $80,000 staked upon the race. This is the first
time he has seen “the Fisher,” as he calls him, and, almost
breathlessly, he stands estimating his antagonist.
“Too much belly on `the Fisher' to-day,” remarks General
Buford.
“I'll be dog-on if that little short cuss can beat Longfellow,”
continues a lank, red-haired Kentuckian.
“Moves like he could run some,” said old John, and when “the
Fisher” came along he quietly got up and went down to the
track.
“How do you like him, old man?” asked John Hunter.
“Putty dog-on full of muscle, Hunter, and he branches off like
he had hell in him, sure, but I guess old Longfellow will have
his `run,”' and then shrewd old Harper stopped his old silver
watch to get Kingfisher's time, which was 1:50.
Old John remarked, “I reckon he kin do 1:41.”
Kingfisher is a light bay horse, full of muscles, and with terrible
action. He looks like a racer every inch of him.
LONGFELLOW,
accompanied by his stud (Littleton, Express, and Exchange), now
came out. He looks like an elongated Chatham square hackhorse.
His head is homely and clumsily put on. He starts off
like a camel charged with electricity, but, by-and-bye, when the
his strides become monstrous, and without apparent effort he
shoots by everything on the track. Longfellow has run six
races, all of which he has won, though, when he was a three
year old, he was beaten, when sick, by Enquirer. He ran in
Lexington, beating Pilgrim—time, 1:37. From there he went to
Nashville, beating Morgan Scout without effort, and ran in Memphis,
beating Morgan Scout and John Morrissey's Defender. He
also ran in Cincinnati. At the Branch he has just easily beaten
Helmboldt, Regards, and Breakneck. Longfellow did 1:44 by
Harper's old silver watch this morning.
“You will see a terrible race for that Saratoga cup on Friday
afternoon,” said Harper, as he went back to the stable.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because Longfellow has never had a horse to run with him
before. He always comes in on a galop. But if `the Fisher'
beats him this time, he will beat the best horse I ever saw.”
“Will the Fisher beat?”
Old John shook his head ominously—then he said, half regretfully,
“I was offered $60,000 for old Long at the Branch, and if
he wins I can take $100,000 for him; but if he loses I will sell
him for $25,000. So you see I have $75,000 at stake on the
race.”
“And Belmont is betting even?”
“Yes—he offered to take any number of bets, $500 to $500,
or $5,000 to $5,000, coming up on the cars yesterday.”
“Who have you got training this $60,000 worth of horse?”
“Oh, my darkey boys take care of him—they're good boys, I
raised 'em, too—on the farm with the hosses. The boys like the
hosses, and they get on well together. I bought old Jake there
for $1,500 from Dr. Shelby, in Kentucky, but I think as much of
him as I do of Longfellow.”
“Will you sell Longfellow if he wins?”
“No, I shall take him back to Kentuck, put him up, and breed
from him. A mar with a colt from him would sell for $5,000,
and I'd soon get my $100,000 back.”
“Would you like a cool day for the race?”
“No, the hotter the better. Hosses run better hot days than
cool days.”
And so the old octogenarian horse-racer went on—full of wisdom,
philosophy, and sometimes fun.
LO, THE POOR INDIAN
is here again this season, but the Saratogians
have run him a little further into the woods—
further towards the setting sun. The name
applies well, for they are all low Indians.
Artemus Ward says the Indians came to him
on the plains and said: “White brother, we
are just traveling toward the setting sun.
In a few moons more the lone Indian will
touch the setting sun;” “and then,” said
Artemus, “they stole our whiskey and blankets, and started for
the sun!”
JOKE.
Mrs. Colonel Shafer says to-day that “Saratoga and the Gilsey
House are charming places, but they do remind one so constantly
of home!”
“Why, dear?” asked the Colonel.
“Because they are the dearest spots on earth.”
LAN—
| Saratoga in 1901 | |