Chapter Five
Bangor Trotting Park
Jack, Albert, Jeb, and Jackson arrived at Bass Trotting Park in Bangor the afternoon of September seventeenth. They would have four days to work the track and become familiar with its surface and the radius of the turns.
Mr. Daws arrived on the train from Portland the afternoon of the twentieth. He was met by a car belonging to the Bangor House and driven directly to the paddock area.
Jack led the horse out for Mr. Daws to see what great shape it was in.
Daws was appalled when he saw Jackson Grattan’s shaved leg,
“What the hell happened to my horse? When the bettors see this the odds on the Cock horse will rise as ours drop like a Gypsy Rose Lee fan.”
Albert said, “Not to worry Mr. Daws. When bettors see the leg, they will figure Jackson is hurt and not bet him. Yes, the odds will soar, cause your horse will be seen as hurt. But that ain’t so, his leg is shaved but he is sound. Before we left Houlton he turned a mile in 2:07 on the half mile track. Put your money on Jackson, with the odds at thirty to one or better, you can make enough money to match what you paid for him.”
Daws said to himself that makes sense─ if he wins. What if he doesn’t?
He figured he would talk about betting strategy back at the hotel. He trusted Fred’s judgment as a business man. He and Fred planned to have dinner with other members of the Houlton Driving Club in the dining room at the Bangor House, the hotel they booked in advance of the race.
After dinner the group adjourned to the suite adjacent to Fred’s room.
A handsome waiter was on hand behind a mini bar with brandy and a box of Cuban cigars. Of course they were Monticristo #2 ─or maybe #4.there was a smudge on the label. Fred and Daws settled down on two overstuffed brown leather chairs. Fred nodded to the waiter and pointed to the brandy bottle and the cigar box. The waiter brought them each a snifter of Hennessy Cognac, two Monticristos, a Rasolino cigar cutter, and placed them on the burled walnut table between the two chairs.
“I hope this will be to your satisfaction, Mr. Putnam.” Said the waiter.
“Just fine, Harold, thank you. See if the others would like a bit of cognac to settle their dinner. Or perhaps a cigar.”
Fred held his cognac snifter towards Daws in a mock toast, and said, “Here’s to success tomorrow.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. What if we bet the farm and lose?”
“You don’t think the horse is ready?”
“He’s ready, as is the Braden horse, and the two other colts in the race. Anything can happen, it’s a horse race.”
“Ralph Berry pulled a chair up in front of the two men and said, “I’m sensing some misgivings about our horse.”
“Not by me,” said Fred, “Daws here is the one that’s worried.”
“What’s the problem, “ said Berry, we got a ton of dough tied up in this colt, and between Jack and the black guy Albert, the best trainers in the business, I think that this time tomorrow the Cock of the North will be wondering what happened to his cock-a doodle-do.”
“Suppose we lose?” said Daws, “It is, after all, a horse race.”
“You’re acting to me like you’re expecting to lose. What the hell did you buy in for if you think you bought a loser, “said Ralph.
“I don’t know you very well, we just met last week. I know you are a big time Ford dealer in what you all call the County, but I don’t know how you got there. I own Drug Stores in every town in upstate New York. I didn’t inherit them; I got em by working my ass off and being smarter than the other guy. I started as a clerk at age 17 for the Rexall Drug store in Rome, New York. Five years later I owned the store. Now, at age fifty one I own seventy five stores. Why? Cause I’m smarter than the average guy. I like our horse, that’s why I bought a piece. But I’m not in love with him. Guy’s in love do stupid things. You can look at tomorrow as a horse race, or you can analyze it as a business deal. I go for business.”
“So what are you saying, you’re not gonna bet him? You don’t think he will win? I think he will, he turned a mile in just under 2.07 in a strong workout last week. That’s faster than the Braden horse has ever run, and none of the other two in the race have ever done better than 2.07.”Said Fred.
“I agree with Fred,” said Ralph, “I’m putting my money on our horse to win. The odds should be good when the handicappers see the hair shaved off his leg.”
Daws gave Fred a crafty smile, maybe a smirk, and said “I admire your dedication to our horse, but─ recall what I said; guys who make business decisions on emotion usually lose.”
Fred smiled, sipped on his cognac and asked, “So what’s your unemotional plan of action after spending five grand and travelling eight hundred miles to see Jackson Gratten beat the Cock of the North?”
“I’m gonna bet our horse to win, and I’m gonna bet the Braden horse to win.”
Fred took another sip, looked at Ralph, shrugged his shoulders as if to say, What’s he talking about?
Picking up on the puzzled looks, Daws told them there was a bet called a box exacta that could cover their horse if he won or placed second. “You all know what an exacta is,” he said,” you select the two horses you expect to finish first and second, in that order, the exacta requires you to select the first two finishers in order. When you box the exactas your two horses can come in any order, first or second. So if I bet the box exacta, and bet our horse and the Braden horse, it doesn’t matter who wins, as long as one of them does, and the other places second. Got it?”
“Waiter, I better have another round,” Said Ralph.“Me too,” said Fred. “We don’t do this fancy betting at the trotting tracks in Houlton or Presque Isle. We just bet the horse we figure will win.”
“Parimutual betting is a tad more complicated than that, as is some methods we use back in New York to influence the handicappers.” Said Daws.
“Wadda you mean?’Said Ralph, now a bit tippy from the second, or was it the third, cognac.
“I’ll lay it out for you . The race is tomorrow afternoon, post time two o’clock. I’ll be at the stable early to set things up with Jack. I want Albert to lead the horse out early, bath him, and, with folks looking on, take some liniment and rub on the shaved leg, and wrap it. I’ll ask him to pick the foot up and check it good, just for effect. Then he’ll wrap it and walk the horse in a circle and then trot it some all the time looking at the foot. He’ll stop after a couple of circles, shake his head and lead ol Gratten back to the stall. The handicappers will go nuts. The odds right now are damned near even for the Braden horse and ours. By noon, we will be a fifty to one long shot.”
“All the more reason to bet him to win.”Said Fred.
“But what if he doesn’t? Said Daws. “I’m not saying bet against him, I’m saying play it safe. Sure, you’ll win less if he does win and you bet him to win or place, but if he doesn’t, you lose it all. My way, you risk less and make less, but at least you got gas money home,”
“But to have Albert and Jack fake an injury, that’s dishonest.”Said Ralph.
“May I remind you that this is a horse race? Said Daws.
“I like it” Said Fred. “Tell us again how that box thing works.”
“Well, count me out.” Said Ralph.” I don’t believe in cheating or being dishonest. I sell cars, and misleading buyers is not our business model.”
“Yeah, we all know what straight shooters car salesmen are.” Fred said.
Fred stood, tossed down the brandy left in the snifter and said, “Let’s call it a night, big day tomorrow. What say we have an early breakfast and get to the Park by seven?”
“I’ll meet you there; I want to get Jack and Albert on board with my plan. Maybe when the paddock gets crowded we’ll shave a little more hair off that leg, just for effect.”Said Daws.
Over breakfast, Fred explained Daws’ plan to the other members of the club. Ralph expressed his reluctance to the whole idea and told t
hem he wanted no part of it. He liked his horse and was betting it to win. Fred explained the box exacta to the others and reminded them that anything can happen in a horse race; he was going to play it safe and bet the box exacta. The others were non committal, saying they wanted to think about it.
When Daws arrived at the track, Albert and Jeb were already grooming their horse. Daws told them to put him back in the stall for a minute; he wanted to talk to them about his plan for faking the extent of the injury to his horse. Albert liked the idea right away. Jeb seemed a little puzzled by it, not understanding the complexity of betting a horse race.
Albert told Daws he witnessed the same trick pulled in Saratoga a few years back. He watched as a German trainer named Frank wrapped a horse’s leg the morning of the race. He shaved the leg before he wrapped it, and slipped a small weight inside the wrap, just enough to cause the horse to walk a bit off balance. When the paddock area got crowded, he walked the horse in circles to “loosen” it up. When he was sure everyone had seen his so called lame horse, he put it back in the stall until race time. That afternoon, it went off at eighteen to one and won the race.
Daws said, “That’s the result I’m hoping for Albert. See if you can be as effective at acting as your German friend.”
A half hour before race time the club was gathered on the plaza in front of the pari-mutuel windows talking strategy. The tote board was updating the odds on each of the horses as the size of the betting pool increased. The size of the pool mirrored the size of the interest in the race. Money had come in from as far south as Boston and as far north as New Brunswick, Canada. Big money to be made. Or lost.
Ralph spoke first, “I’m sticking with our horse, laying a thousand on him to win. Fred said ”I’m boxing five hundred on the Braden horse and ours.”
Daws glanced back at the tote board and said, “There is still money coming in, I’ll wait till the last minute to decide. It depends on the odds.”
The other two club members took the emotional route and bet five hundred on Jackson to win.
Two minutes before post time, Daws checked the odds. The pool was huge. The Braden horse was at two to one, the big bay from Vermont was at six to one, the Canadian horse at eight to one, and Jackson, the horse who most thought was hurt, was at thirty to one.
Daws placed his bet. He laid down a thousand dollars and told the clerk to box the number three horse (John Braden) and the number nine horse (Jackson Gratten). The clerk looked over his glasses, a quizzical look on his face as if to ask if he knew what he was doing, then took the money, punched the ticket and gave it to Daws. Daws smiled that smile that says I know something you don’t know─ and walked back to the box reserved for owners to join the others.
The first heat turned out to be the most exciting race of the day. The bay from Vermont was in the lead until the final turn, with Braden and Jackson side by side a sulky length behind. As they pounded down the straight away to the wire, the bay horse broke gait and started to gallop. That left Braden and Jackson nose to nose until the wire. Photo finish. The judges took five minutes before deciding the Braden horse has won by a nostril in record time for the track, 206 ¼.
The second heat was all Braden. He was the strongest and best conditioned of the bunch and won going away by three lengths over Jackson Gratten.
Fred cashed in his five hundred dollar ticket for three thousand dollars. Daws could not control a smirk as he handed his ticket to the clerk. The clerk smiled back, congratulated him and handed him twelve thousand dollars.
Ralph and the other members of the club stayed in their reserved box in grim silence.
Daws, delighted with his good fortune, boarded a train next morning for New York satisfied that he proved that sound business decisions trump emotional ones. His bond with Fred, now stronger than ever, would no doubt lead to other joint ventures in the future
Ralph and the other members were disappointed. But life, as they say, goes on.
Albert went back to New York with a bonus and new management responsibilities at the Daws trotting horse stable in Syracuse.
Jeb talked Albert out of the recipe for his brown salve and hired on with the Braden crew.
Jackson Gratten when on to win many races before being injured. He was humanely destroyed following an accident at the Skowhegan Trotting Park.
The Houlton Driving Club thrived and encouraged others to become involved in the sport. By the 1950s, folks like Ralph Berry, Jimmy McCluskey, and Walter Davis had horses that pretty much ruled the roost in New England, as the Cock of the north once did. Davis had a special pacer named Mountain View with earnings well over one million dollars in its career. Maybe, born earlier, the pacer could have ended the dominance of The Little Iron Horse.
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About the Author
Bob Fields possesses an exceptional talent for translating his broadly based life experiences to the written page. A veteran of two wars (three if you count Wall Street), his early hard scrabble life taught him real life lessons; the application of which propelled his success in a military career and numerous business ventures.
After his retirement from business in 1999 he began a career as a Free Lance Writer. His work has been published in regional magazines and company oriented newsletters related to the environment. He has published two print books describing life as a boy in the 1940s. Currently, Bob has two short stories in progress, and is working on a historical fiction novel. It is a gripping tale of a white boy and a Maliseet Indian girl overcoming their humble beginnings to become icons for the disadvantaged.
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