985 
 
 JC-MWUF 
 
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LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA. 
 
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 Gl FT OF 
 
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 WINDLE 
 
THE 
 
 RACE TRACK 
 
 SWINDLE 
 
 A SATIRE 
 
 BY 
 
 THOMAS H. 
 
 Who Sincerely Hopes This Publication Will be Instrumental In Saving 
 Some of His Fellow Men From the Fatal Whirl of the Track. 
 
 THE JAMES H. BARRY CO. 
 a 14 IrfEAVIDNWORTH ST., SAN FHANOISCO 
 
#? 
 
 COPYRIGHT 19O6, BY THOMAS H. KENNEDY 
 
PREFACE 
 
 Horse-racing was once a noble sport, conducted by hon- 
 orable gentlemen, to whom the honor of winning was of 
 more importance than the stake. Today it has degenerated 
 into a despicable game. Every race-track is a gambling hell, 
 run apparently in the interest of scheming rings, whose only 
 object seems to be the skinning of the unfortunate victims 
 who play. 
 
 The vile work at the starting gate, the rank decisions of 
 the judges, the "doping" of horses, the crookedness of jock- 
 eys, the treachery of owners and the rascality of books, have 
 caused many disagreeable scandals, which have, in a measure, 
 opened the eyes of the public, and yet, lured by the fascina- 
 tion of the game, they continue to go in trainloads and 
 gamble while they have a dollar left. 
 
 The game is so corrupt that it has been suppressed in sev- 
 eral states, and in others the battle against it is still going 
 on. It has blighted lives, ruined homes, wrecked fortunes, 
 and caused rivers of tears to flow. The insane asylums, alms- 
 houses and jails are filled with its victims, and considering 
 everything, THE RACETRACK SWINDLE is a mighty evil which 
 every law-abiding citizen should endeavor to suppress. 
 
 166405 
 
THE RACE TRACK SWINDLE 
 
 Come, festive sports, whoVe played the ponies long, 
 
 And hear the muse that sings a doleful song. 
 
 Ye midnight students of the doubtful "dope," 
 
 Who figure records, while ye fondly hope ; 
 
 Unwise mechanics who the workshops leave 
 
 To buck the bookies laughing in their sleeves; 
 
 Deluded followers of the tipsters, too, 
 
 Or touts that worry with their tales untrue. 
 
 Come, weary women, who may sadly need 
 
 The savings squandered on each fancied steed ; 
 
 Ye young beginner nibbling at the bait, 
 
 Or older player with a hoary pate; 
 
 Whatever your station, you may wiser be 
 
 To heed the wisdom which is sung for thee. 
 
 No sorehead malice doth my words impel, 
 
 Mine is the wish alone, the truth to tell ; 
 
 To point the folly, and without offense 
 
 Lead thoughtless victims to the path of sense ; 
 
 In its true light, before the public bring 
 
 The hideous evil called "The Sport of Kings." 
 
THE RACE TRACK SWINDLE. 
 
 There was a time, not many years ago, 
 
 When honest starters let the horses go, 
 
 And honest owners raced each gallant steed, 
 
 Moved by no spirit of unholy greed. 
 
 To see the steed they owned beneath the wire 
 
 First at the finish was their one desire, 
 
 Proud of the jockey of superior skill 
 
 Who loved hi mount and rode it with a will. 
 
 Then at the County Fair, just once a year, 
 
 For a short time the racers would appear, 
 
 And the good people from the country side 
 
 Came to the sport they loved from far and wide. 
 
 Sweet Mary Jones put on her Sunday togs 
 
 And Bill brushed up when he had fed the hogs; 
 
 While good old Mamma donned her Cashmere shawl, 
 
 Jake hitched the horses to the carry-all. 
 
 Old farmer Jones his ancient whiskers trimmed 
 
 And wiped his spectacles by hay-dust dimmed, 
 
 Then down the county road on pleasure bent, 
 
 With all the neighbors to the races went. 
 
 A joyous crowd of people filled the stand 
 
 Pleased with the music of the rustic band. 
 
 When from the paddock came each noble nag, 
 
 Ready to jump when dropped the crimson flag, 
 
THE RACE TRACK SWINDLE. 
 
 They saw no crooked starter's juggling play 
 To get some favored steed the first away; 
 Nor thought of riders paid by thieving crooks 
 To "pull" a winning horse to save the books. 
 When round the track the nimble coursers sped, 
 Right from the heart, they cheered the one that led, 
 And when the struggling field came flying in 
 Were pleased, b'gosh, to see the best "hoss" win. 
 
 But now, alas, how changed are things, to-day 
 Each racing magnate can with pride survey 
 His wide domain of track and grassy lawn 
 Which willing gardeners sprinkle night and morn ; 
 Two miles of stables with three thousand steeds, 
 And scores of hostlers tending to their needs; 
 The trainers with their salaries, not the least, 
 And numerous boys to exercise each beast; 
 Cooks, farriers, yes, and veterinarians, too, 
 With clerks and trackmen, swell the costly crew ; 
 The so-called starter, kept at great expense, 
 And judges with their salaries immense; 
 The horde of specials whom the club must pay 
 To keep the beats and outside thieves at bay ; 
 The club-house furnished in luxurious style, 
 The band that tries with music to beguile, 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UN/VERSJTV 
 
THE RACE TRACK SWINDLE. 
 
 The books that pay two hundred bucks apiece, 
 Expense each day, the easy-ones to fleece; 
 Count up the cost, and would it be amiss 
 To ask in Reason's name, who pays for this? 
 
 Bound for the track, behold the crowded trains 
 That bring their loads of fortune-seeking swains. 
 Led on by folly, hear the turnslile's click 
 As lines pay tribute and are surging thick. 
 Stand near the gate, observe them well and trace 
 The weary aspect of each passing face. 
 There, careless youth and thoughtful age are seen 
 With painted dames and consorts coarse and mean; 
 There, tradesmen's wives the family savings bring 
 Unknown to husbands, who their virtues sing; 
 Embezzling clerks there take the downward path 
 That brings a mother's grief and father's wrath, 
 And many a jailbird who has served his time, 
 Still unrepentant, haunts this school of crime. 
 All see their fortunes dwindle day by day, 
 Yet lack the stamina to keep away. 
 Among the mighty throng there's scarcely one 
 Who loves a race, and comes to see it run. 
 
 8 
 
THE RACE TRACK SWINDLE. 
 
 Proceed, ye victims, to the betting ring, 
 Quite welcome are ye with the wealth ye bring. 
 The books are waiting, yes, by all the gods! 
 The boards are covered with the "opening odds." 
 See, there 's the favorite marked at four to five, 
 A generous price, as sure as you're alive ; 
 Just sixteen horses running in the race 
 The second choice is six to five "to place." 
 Some hold their money and with hasty glance 
 Scan every board to see the price advance; 
 But no, just four to five is all they see, 
 And look ! the pikers* book lays only three. 
 Then comes the rush, the markers' pencils ply 
 While dupes call bets and hold the money high, 
 Around each stand the crushing players storm, 
 'Tis "frenzied finance" in its maddest form. 
 The busy pool-boys, women's wagers bring 
 While many a tout goes whispering round the ring. 
 All crowd and jostle in the reeking smoke 
 With serious words, perchance, or flippant joke. 
 For twenty minutes pandemonium reigns 
 While nervous gamblers bet with troubled brains; 
 When, hark ! the bugle tells the surging host 
 The horses now are going to the post. 
 
 9 
 
THE RACE TRACK SWINDLE. 
 
 Then the sagacious players to a man 
 Rush from the ring their fancied ones to scan. 
 Before the judge they trot in single file, 
 Then to the tape, the race is for a mile. 
 The mis-named starter, standing on the rail, 
 Surveys each steed with flowing mane and tail, 
 Gives orders quick while skittish horses rear 
 And fill the timid stable-boys with fear. 
 
 If high-strung steeds go shuffling 'cross the track 
 
 The assistant starters quickly lash them back, 
 
 Seize this one's bridle, turn him deftly round, 
 
 Or drag another roughly o'er the ground. 
 
 The jockeys, too, in silken colors dressed, 
 
 To line them up, appear to do their best. 
 
 Three times they're ready, yet with trembling heart 
 
 The talent wonders why they do not start. 
 
 Again the shuffle, and again the whip 
 
 Laid on the prancing steeds that fret and skip, 
 
 And now the public choice which long had been 
 
 A patient beast, is somewhat restive seen. 
 
 Low speaks the starter, yet 'tis scarcely said 
 
 Ere "Holdfast Jimmy" has him by the head, 
 
 Tugs at the bridle, gives his neck a yank 
 
 10 
 
THE RACE TRACK SWINDLE. 
 
 And lands a vicious lash upon his flank, 
 Swings him around, the jugglery is done, 
 The field is off, the favorite didn't run, 
 "Left at the post," the swindled people yell 
 And curse the starters to the depths of hell. 
 Some entry owner may with scowling eye 
 Observe the juggling, but must pass it by; 
 For well he fears the grumbling turfman's fate 
 Who dares to murmur at the doubtful gate; 
 In future starts, his nags the fields might chase 
 And long perhaps before they'd win a race. 
 
 Tell me, ye followers of the thieving game 
 That long has been our nation's blot of shame, 
 Have ye not heard disgusted players hiss 
 And hoot the starters for such work as this? 
 Though loud and long the howl of rage they raise, 
 It ne'er was known the callous gang to daze, 
 And, stranger still, the judges from the stand 
 Were never known to give a reprimand; 
 They did not see it, though he badly sinned ; 
 Protect the books, the public must be skinned. 
 
 II 
 
THE RACE TRACK SWINDLE. 
 
 Though oft the furious players question why 
 Such shocking work escapes the judges' eye, 
 The starting fake is but a single means 
 To draw the money from the gambler's jeans. 
 Just watch, when bangtails fly around the course, 
 How slick the jockey pulls a winning horse, 
 With choking bridle takes a "live one" back 
 Or deftly rides it zigzag o'er the track; 
 Drops in each pocket that the field may show, 
 Or finds the going where the track is slow. 
 Right to the wire, before the judges' eyes, 
 To lose the race, with cunning skill he tries, 
 And when his mount has finished in the "ruck" 
 They curse him roundly for their evil luck. 
 
 There is a Ring around the track, ye fools, 
 And jockeys often are its blameless tools. 
 They get their orders from their masters, who 
 Are there to swindle all such dupes as you. 
 Some crooked race is made up every day, 
 And woe to riders that do not obey; 
 For when a race is run that weirdly looks, 
 Nine times in ten it's paid for by the crooks. 
 'Tis true, at times, when jockeys are in need, 
 
 12 
 
THE RACE TRACK SWINDLE. 
 
 Unhid, they trifle with a horse's speed, 
 
 And if you search their bootlegs you may find 
 
 The checks they got to keep the mount behind. 
 
 Around the stables there are owners, too, 
 Whose winning horses are extremely few. 
 They need the money to procure the hay, 
 To buy the oats, and stable help t6 pay, 
 And when they get one which a winner looks, 
 It sometimes pays to interview the crooks. 
 They'll find a way before the race is run 
 To see the suckers most supremely done. 
 
 When owners bet, they're followed by the eyes 
 Of many watchers who believe them wise. 
 Some of these owners have a heart as black 
 As any scoundrel that infests the track, 
 And 'tis such scalawags the thieves employ 
 To make fake wagers and the dupes decoy. 
 We often see them touting round the ring 
 That certain entries will the money bring, 
 When they well know the runner isn't "meant," 
 And for a workout with the field is sent. 
 His touting done, the crafty steerer gets 
 
 13 
 
THE RACE TRACK SWINDLE. 
 
 Up to the books and bogus markers bets, 
 While trailing suckers all his betting see 
 And so conclude it must a "sleeper" be. 
 He owns a stable and must something know 
 Or else he would not all his money throw. 
 They also play it, then proceed to tell 
 Their cronies how this owner backed it well. 
 The story flies, and many follow suit 
 With stacks of money on the speedless brute; 
 And when too late, the luckless dupes, dismayed, 
 Perceive the trick the sordid villain played, 
 They ask themselves how much the steerer slick 
 Was paid to fool them by the craven trick? 
 Such odious work they're doing every day, 
 To make the dollars come the ringsters* way, 
 While hapless victims see the money flit, 
 But lack the sense or self-control to quit. 
 
 Some bookies also speedy runners keep, 
 Whose form reversals make the talent weep. 
 They own the jockeys, and whatever they say, 
 To win or lose, the rider must obey. 
 The fool who tackles such a game as that 
 Deserves to see his wallet getting flat. 
 
THE RACE TRACK SWINDLE. 
 
 It does not need a buzzard's scent to trace 
 The fetid odor of the putrid race. 
 Yet the officials must complacent look, 
 And seldom punish the offending book. 
 
 Another dodge, as many a one can tell, 
 
 The ring has often worked to fleece them well 
 
 When there was danger that themselves be flayed 
 
 By wins of horses that were strongly played. 
 
 A steed has won, the lucky fellows dash 
 
 Behind the stands, the winning checks to cash, 
 
 When, hark! they hear, and with chagrin they scowl; 
 
 Some losing owner has proclaimed a foul. 
 
 Then comes a period of extreme suspense. 
 
 The judge deliberates with thoughts intense, 
 
 The jockeys tell their stories in the stand, 
 
 Hushed is the crowd, and silent is the band; 
 
 While women bordering on hysteria wait 
 
 To see the numbers that will tell their fate. 
 
 And when the judge with solemn face and frown 
 
 Allows the foul, and sets the rider down, 
 
 Though loud the roar the partial judge may hear, 
 
 He lends a cold, unsympathetic ear; 
 
 For in his heart, above that raucous din, 
 
 He hears a voice that says the books must win. 
 
 15 
 
THE RACE TRACK SWINDLE. 
 
 If racetrack dupes with reason would reflect, 
 
 They'd own, such shady work they must expect; 
 
 The gambling feature is the tempting bait 
 
 That draws the dollars to the turnstile gate, 
 
 And if the tracks did no protection give, 
 
 The books would quit them, for they could not live. 
 
 How many times a multitude of eyes 
 Have watched the runners straining for the prize, 
 When up the dusty stretch they nimbly skip, 
 Urged by the jockeys with the spur and whip. 
 Come on, my steed! each anxious player cries, 
 With roar that echoes to the bending skies; 
 They snap their fingers, or they clap their hands, 
 While nervous women almost fainting stand; 
 They yell, they swear, they tremble and perspire 
 Until the rushing field has passed the wire. 
 A race where every horse the route contends, 
 And every jockey to his duty bends. 
 Close is the finish, by a lengthy nose 
 First by the line, the speedy winner goes, 
 A favorite also, and the win is plain, 
 The public see it and they cheer again; 
 But when the rulers who decide the race 
 
 16 
 
THE RACE TRACK SWINDLE. 
 
 Have put the winner in the second place, 
 Though swindled hundreds may the crime deplore, 
 And bitter yells of disapproval roar, 
 They calmly tell the buncoed players that 
 They're cross-eyed, surely, or as blind as bats. 
 "Deceptive angles" make them crooked see, 
 The horse ran as they placed him there must be. 
 This is the time no starter's gang have sinned, 
 And yet again the players have been skinned. 
 
 J Tis true they sometimes punish erring boys 
 And owners when their treachery annoys, 
 When plugs perform an acrobatic feat 
 And at long prices better horses beat ; 
 They sternly put the stable on the rack 
 And banish all connections from the track. 
 Look o'er the form sheets with inquiring eyes, 
 This cogent fact you cannot then disguise: 
 That nearly always such poor devil's sins 
 Were that the books had suffered by the wins. 
 
 At other times they will a scapegoat make 
 Of struggling jockeys for a slight mistake, 
 Or for the talent make a grandstand play 
 By bidding owner take his steeds away, 
 
 17 
 
THE RACE TRACK SWINDLE. 
 
 When some good horse, a favorite on the slate, 
 
 Is badly beaten by a cheaper skate. 
 
 The owner then arises to explain: 
 
 His horse was "troubled with rheumatic pain/' 
 
 Perhaps was ailing with incipient mumps 
 
 Or ran the fizzle when he had the "thumps"; 
 
 His "frog was injured by a rusty nail," 
 
 Or had "an abscess growing on his tail." 
 
 Whatever the excuse, 'tis plausible of course, 
 
 The track officials reinstate the horse, 
 
 Which soon gets ready, on the dry or slop, 
 
 To skin the talent with another flop, 
 
 This time the public dropped the shining hoard- 
 
 "It makes a difference whose ox is gored." 
 
 And still they go, determined yet to take 
 Another rally at the swindling fake. 
 Around the track they whispered stories hear 
 Of "something doing" in the future near; 
 A long-priced sleeper of amazing speed, 
 Placed in an easy race the books to bleed. 
 It's coming soon; impatiently they wait 
 To make a killing on the promised skate. 
 The day arrives, the hopeful suckers go 
 
 18 
 
THE RACE TRACK SWINDLE. 
 
 And bet the remnant of their hoarded "dough." 
 The books receive with unsuspicious eyes ; 
 The victims wonder why they don't get wise; 
 But when they start, and off the good thing goes, 
 They to their horror find it has the slows, 
 Learn when too late, and fleeter nags have won, 
 The books were wise, and they were neatly done. 
 
 Yes, buncoed player with despondent heart, 
 They're often wise before the ponies start. 
 One-half the tips the hopeful simples get 
 Are traps they set to make the greenies bet. 
 Continue on, as others have before; 
 You'll drop your wealth and linger there no more; 
 But they, through coming years with ready hands 
 Will reach for dollars at the same old stands; 
 Still travel round in style that's truly swell, 
 Still dine and slumber at the best hotel, 
 Garbed in the best the tailor can prepare, 
 And rarest jewels on their persons wear. 
 Look down the line with thoughtful eyes and see 
 How sleek and prosperous they seem to be. 
 They are not there entirely for their health; 
 The players furnish all their dazzling wealth. 
 
 19 
 
THE RACE TRACK SWINDLE. 
 
 Turn to the pikers' corner and survey 
 
 The different aspect of the men that play. 
 
 They do no feeding at a grand hotel 
 
 A beanery sandwich fits their stomachs well, 
 
 They're long familiar with the doughnuts, too, 
 
 Have learned to masticate the hash-house stew, 
 
 And when they have the money in their jeans, 
 
 Ne'er turn their faces from good wholesome beans. 
 
 No glittering gems their nervous fingers show, 
 
 Some hockshop uncle got them long ago, 
 
 And though their pants need patching at the stern, 
 
 It seems, alas, they'll ne'er a lesson learn ; 
 
 For when they get some money, off they "hike" 
 
 And buy a ticket to the track and "pike." 
 
 Think of the many human wrecks you've seen, 
 Who long around the betting-ring have been, 
 Yet curse the fatal day with deepest hate 
 That led their footsteps to the race track gate. 
 With seedy clothing, and with pockets bare, 
 They scan the figures with a yearning stare 
 And beg some other piker to "chip in" 
 To bet the steed their judgment picks to win. 
 
 20 
 
THE RACE TRACK SWINDLE. 
 
 Think well of these, for they were once like you, 
 Had pride, ambition, and a bank-roll, too; 
 Perhaps were warned, as you are warned today, 
 Of evils coming to the dupes that play; 
 Yet heedless frolicked with the siren game 
 Till they at last its bankrupt slaves became. 
 Such is the fate of all who with it stay. 
 Beware of this! and quit it while you may. 
 
 Dupes sometimes listen with alluring hope 
 To tales of "speed-balls" and injected "dope," 
 Of shameless owners with indifferent plugs 
 Who fill them up with stimulating drugs 
 Things that will make a venerable skate 
 Frisk like a two-year-old before the gate. 
 'Tis often true, as many a field can show, 
 When from the paddock to the post they go, 
 There, crazy runners every day are seen, 
 That rear and plunge with dispositions mean; 
 Perspiring, trembling, sinuous courses shape, 
 Hard held by jockeys till they reach the tape. 
 The drugs are working; if he lets them go, 
 The frantic steed the field his heels could show; 
 But no, the starter knows his work too well; 
 
 21 
 
THE RACE TRACK SWINDLE. 
 
 The horse was played, the figures plainly tell. 
 
 He holds the field until the "live one" cools, 
 
 Then turns them loose to disappoint the fools, 
 
 And when the winner by the wire has passed, 
 
 The poor doped horse comes staggering home the last. 
 
 Thus, through the seasons they by devious ways 
 Abstract the shekels from the dupe that plays, 
 And thousands yearly, to our country's shame, 
 Are led to ruin by the wretched game. 
 Some with their noddles full of equine lore, 
 Stay up all night and over form-sheets pore. 
 The most sagacious of all dupes are they, 
 And wisely handicap before they play. 
 Of sire or dam, no knowledge do they lack, 
 But know each breed for generations back ; 
 Can point the speedy runners on the dry, 
 Or mudders which on sloppy tracks can fly. 
 They know the value of each boy that rides, 
 And horses that need stimulants besides. 
 The mighty brains in their prolific pates 
 Can figure nicely on adjusted weights, 
 And pick the runners that need only breeze 
 To beat the others with the utmost ease. 
 
 22 
 
UNK 
 
 O" 
 
 . 
 
 THE RACE TRACK SWINDLE. 
 
 Yet strange it is, with all their skill displayed 
 
 Their trousers legs are often badly frayed ; 
 
 Their hats are also ragged at the rim, 
 
 Their diet simple, and their purses slim, 
 
 And though they sometimes winning wagers place 
 
 Upon their own selections in a race, 
 
 They find like others when the season's done, 
 
 They've had the study, and the books the fun. 
 
 Some study "systems" which on paper show 
 
 The books beyond a doubt will bankrupt go, 
 
 But when they play it, though their brains they rack, 
 
 They find it breaks them when they hit the track. 
 
 No man that ever lived, however wise, 
 
 To beat the game, a system could devise, 
 
 And though deluded thousands play them still, 
 
 They never beat it and they never will. 
 
 Some follow tipsters who with wisdom great 
 Proclaim a corner on some coming skate, 
 And charge five dollars for the "info," which 
 Was never known to make the buyer rich. 
 If all the public tipsters selling "dope" 
 To lure beginners with deceptive hope, 
 
 23 
 
THE RACE TRACK SWINDLE. 
 
 Possessed one-half the knowledge which they say, 
 They'd all make fortunes in a single day. 
 Think well, 'ere counsel from such touts you take, 
 And shun their guidance as you would a snake. 
 
 Repining sad in many a prison cell 
 Are trusted clerks who at the racetrack fell, 
 While fathers mourn o'er wayward offspring's shame 
 And curse the keepers of the sinful game. 
 And many a tear a mother's eyes have shed 
 While tossing restless on her sleepless bed, 
 O'er the confinement of her prison boy 
 Whose honored name the gambling did destroy. 
 Despairing wives have seen their husbands go 
 And day by day their needed savings throw, 
 Lured by the reckless mania of the track 
 To game with money that will ne'er come back. 
 Led by illusive hope some struggle on 
 Till every dollar they possess is gone, 
 Then sadly ponder o'er the wealth they gave 
 And bury sorrow in a suicide's grave. 
 Our public guardians can dark stories tell 
 Of poolroom evils which they strive to quell; 
 Of frequent crimes, and murder's record black 
 That follow yearly with the opened track. 
 24 
 
THE RACE TRACK SWINDLE. 
 
 Pause, reckless player, for a moment, think, 
 Let Reason guide you ere you reach the brink. 
 Think of the mighty sum, the princely sack 
 It takes to build and furnish every track; 
 Think of the millions they must yearly pay 
 To run the odious swindle every day; 
 Whichever way the wandering thought may run 
 This truth must strike you when reflection's done: 
 That all expenses which they yearly pay 
 Come from the victims who go there to play; 
 Expenses only, they've no wish to make, 
 The tracks each day must goodly profits take, 
 For years they've done it and are taking still 
 They're getting rich, the talent pays the bill. 
 
 Think, in each race, whate'er the field may be, 
 
 A single winner can the public see. 
 
 They put ten horses on the programme, then 
 
 'Tis plain the player has one chance in ten, 
 
 And if twelve ponies to the starters go 
 
 One chance in twelve is what the figures show. 
 
 A thoughtful man perceives how small a chance 
 
 Can here be found his fortune to enhance; 
 
 This, when a race is on its merit run 
 
 25 
 
THE RACE TRACK SWINDLE. 
 
 Nor crooked start, nor shady work is done. 
 The shady work no honest man can doubt 
 Who often sees the scandals cropping out. 
 'Twould be unwise to let the public know 
 Of all the wickedness they keep below, 
 Yet when so much is to the surface pressed 
 What is kept covered can be only guessed. 
 
 Indignant touts may say it isn't right 
 To place "The Sport of Kings" in such a light, 
 Or point the racetrack as a gambling den 
 Controlled by secret rings and vicious men. 
 The starter's gang, such steerers ever cry 
 Are pure as angels in the azure sky. 
 They say that innocence and holy grace 
 Are plainly written on each judge's face ; 
 Declare the bookies paths of glory tread, 
 And place a halo round each pious head; 
 Make spotless cherubs of the boys that ride 
 Whom saints or sinners may observe with pride, 
 And all the help, from stables to the stands, 
 As sanctimonious as celestial bands. 
 'Tis wrong, they say, against them to declaim 
 "It does no good and only hurts the game." 
 
 26 
 
THE RACE TRACK SWINDLE. 
 
 Thus cry the touts who coffee-money get 
 
 By steering trusting suckers on to bet, 
 
 A shameless lot of mercenary knaves 
 
 Who'd sell the headstones on their fathers' graves. 
 
 To these and others, I can but reply: 
 I've heard such gabble in the days gone by, 
 Have had experience for many years 
 And write the game as it to me appears. 
 How true my words, let honest men declare 
 Who may unwisely to the track repair, 
 Or read the columns of the press, and see 
 How published scandals and my song agree. 
 I've only written in a general way 
 Of things that happen at the tracks each day, 
 And make no target of a single name 
 To bring dishonor, or to brand with shame. 
 If any upright man amongst them be, 
 The sting was never meant for such as he ; 
 But all the others who are justly hit 
 May wear the cap if they believe 'twill fit. 
 
 Some starters whose conniving work I've seen 
 Have long been sleeping in the churchyard green ; 
 
 27 
 
THE RACE TRACK SWINDLE. 
 
 Some judges, too, the silent sod have pressed 
 And books and jockeys have been laid to rest; 
 And yet the dubious swindle grows apace 
 With all its evil and its black disgrace; 
 Still shall it go perchance through rolling years, 
 While ruined victims shed repentant tears. 
 As time goes on 'tis ever growing worse 
 And is indeed our country's greatest curse. 
 
 'Tis one sad history of blighted lives, 
 Of wailing mothers and despondent wives; 
 Of mortgaged houses, and of lost estates 
 And convicts walking to the prison gates; 
 Of fallen thousands who can sadly tell 
 How racetracks led them to the path of hell; 
 A school of crime, a nursery of distress, 
 Which every nation will in time suppress, 
 And moral people of our country say 
 Is now the greatest evil of the day. 
 
 Stop! struggling victim of the hopeless game 
 Before you're broke, and have yourself to blame. 
 There is no swindle e'er devised by man 
 To skin the sucker with a secret plan; 
 
 28 
 
THE RACE TRACK SWINDLE. 
 
 No brace-game fixed by scoundrels to ensnare 
 And do the "easy" with fastidious care, 
 That gives less chance to hopeful dupes that play 
 Than bucking odds the racetrack swindlers lay. 
 
 The fish that nibbles at the angler's bait 
 
 Repents its folly when it is too late; 
 
 The moth that flutters round the candle's fire 
 
 Will meet its fate and in the flame expire, 
 
 And he who wanders to the track and bets 
 
 Will surely find a time for vain regrets. 
 
 No man that follows it can save a cent, 
 
 It kills ambition and destroys content, 
 
 And if a run of losses you have had, 
 
 Don't go and throw good money after bad; 
 
 Just cut it out, and to your work return, 
 
 And you'll enjoy the dollars that you earn ; 
 
 Will see your savings in the bank increase 
 
 With days of pleasure and with nights of peace, 
 
 Soon will forget how badly you were hit 
 
 THE ONLY WAY TO BEAT IT IS TO QUIT. 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
YB I 1 985 
 
 vJ 
 
 166405