Coogan's 'killing'

My friend Al Hayes—once upon a time he was a great jockey and the idol of the turf—occasionally inveigles me into a wager on the races. I have acquired a certain philosophy in these matters; I no longer hope to win. My bet is laid with the mental comment that the wagered money is gone; and if by chance it comes back to me with other money added unto it, then that is clear and unexpected gain.

But unfortunately that seldom occurs. However, I am content, for if Al's advice costs me money, Al's conversation has enriched my memory with events and incidents of strangely assorted flavors.

I had never heard of Lily White, the "Circus Horse," nor of Moses Coogan, who owned her, till that day Al came into my office, his round little face, so like that of a very wrinkled cherub, gleaming with high hopes. He looked about, with an excess of caution, leaned across my desk and whispered:

"Slip the string off the old B. R., bo, for I got the low down on a rod that's coming out of pickle at Jamaica today."

"You don't say?" I exclaimed. "Tell me about it, Al."

"Lily White in the fourth," he told me.

I picked up the morning Aerograph from my desk to look at the expert pickings for the day. Not one gave Lily White an outside chance.

"She ought to be at a price," I remarked, trying to appear wise and wary.

"Million to once," Al whispered eagerly; "and ab-so-lute-ly sure. I got it straight from the owner."

"Friend of yours?"

"Yeah. Mose Coogan."

"Mose—which?" I inquired in mild surprise.

Al grinned. "He came by the 'Mose' honest, I guess," he said. "But he borrowed the 'Coogan' from a cop or something."

"And this Lily—" I prompted.

"He got her for a badge-horse last summer, when everybody thought she was done for, and the rest through the winter put her in shape. She's been eating up the track in her works and now she's fit to mizzle down the stretch ahead of the best of 'em."

He might have been begging for his life, he was so anxious for me to share in the good thing. I handed him a bill. "Place this for me, will you?" And he did. And Lily White, after leading easily to the six furlong pole—it was a mile race—went dead lame and finished last.

"Price spoiled it," said Al, disgustedly, when he wandered in the next day. "I got cleaned myself."

"I suppose Coogan lost heavily."

Al snorted. "Not him," he said. "Price was only four to five. Everybody was wise, so he had Dot Harris pull her up at the three-quarters. He wouldn't let her win at leas'n 10 to 1, he says. He tried to get word to me to lay off of it, but he couldn't find me."

We puffed sympathetically at our cigarettes, and finally Al rose wearily and made as if to go.

"But we'll clean up on her next time," he promised.

"You're broke, you say?" I asked; and he grinned sheepishly. When he left me he was in funds again.

That was my introduction to Mose Coogan and Lily White; and since credulity is my vice, I ventured a bet on her next start, and her next, and her next. Each time the price was short, and each time she went lame at the three-quarters and finished last. And so I lost interest; but a long time afterward, when Lily White finally won a race—in a way—I heard from Al, and from Coogan himself—who told every one often—and from the jockey, Dock Harris, the interesting story of Coogan's killing.

Coogan was under a handicap from the moment be became an owner of race-horses—or of one race-horse. There are three kinds of men who understand horses; white men born south of Mason and Dixon's line, negroes and Irishmen, who understand everything. Scattering instances outside these classes only go to prove the rule. Coogan, 'spite of his name, was not an Irishman.

In that field of human endeavor most closely related to horse-racing, Coogan's race find a securer place, and from among them Coogan sprang.

His beginning was obscure. At a certain age he attached himself to the entourage of the king of New York handbook men, and became a collector. His functions were these: At noon, or thereabouts, he began a round of certain billiard-rooms, cigar stores, barber shops and bars, where he was handed sums of money and memoranda of wagers. Theoretically, Coogan then delivered the money and memoranda to his chief, and the next day he distributed among his patrons what money they might chance to win.

It was a simple system, but capable of infinite variations. Coogan, for example, soon perceived a chance for profit for himself. If he neglected to notify his chief that he had received a wager, and if the maker of that wager lost, then Coogan could safely pocket the money. If the maker of the wager won, Coogan would be forced to make up the account from his own funds.

But it is one of the fundamental truths in connection with horse-racing that most horses always lose, and all horses usually lose. Coogan began to "stand" on the wagers handed him and in a mixture of luck and canny mathematics—well, after a time he was able to branch out as a book-maker on his own account. And he prospered.

His first visit to a race track, the irksome necessity of paying admission and the opportunity to avoid that necessity by buying for a song, a broken-down thoroughbred, and thus establishing himself in the status of owner, soon brought him into possession of Lily White. Harris did the rest.

Dot Harris was a skillful but indiscreet jockey. On one or two important occasions he had casually neglected to carry out the instructions of the man for whom he was riding. As a result, engagements were few and far between.

When he happened on the stable where Lily White was housed, one day, and saw her morning workout, his eyes bulged, he sought Mose Coogan, and the plot was laid.

They might have made their killing on Lily's first race, but Mose talked, the "good thing" spread, and the odds went down to little or nothing. It was on that race I lost my first bet—under Ad Hayes' advice and counsel.

Thereafter followed a long series of races, in each of which Lily went lame at the three-quarters pole, while Coogan waited for the "price to be right," till at length the time arrived, the day dawned, his decision was made.

The boy with the telegram found Coogan at Lily White's stall; and Coogan thrust his thumb under the message and grinned. It was from Jerry Hart, whom he had left in charge of his bankbook in New York. It read:

See Lily entered today. Does she go?

Coogan turned to the waiting boy. "Send this," he directed and scribbled on the margin of the telegraph blank.

"Keep your shirt on. I'll wise you up when the time comes.

The he counted the words and scratched out "up" and "the" and counted them again. Coogan never wasted money on extra words in a telegram. The boy started away and Coogan called him back. He had decided not to be bothered by any more of those pestiferous inquiries from Jerry Hart or any other friends. Coogan didn't mind lying by word of mouth, but he hated to go on record in a telegram.

"Tell 'em not to deliver any more messages to me till the fifth is off," he directed curtly. The boy grunted assent and trudged away.

Dot Harris—his nickname was a tribute to his lack of stature—was rubbing down Lily White's slender legs in the stall, and Coogan leaned over the door and watched him, and thought of Jerry Hart and grinned. He had promised to let Jerry in on the good thing when Lily got ready to win; and he had made the same promise to other friends.

But what's a promise between friends? If he told Jerry, Jerry would tell some one else and the price would go head over heels again. To be sure, Jerry, and others who believed Coogan, had lost heavily on Lily's early starts when Coogan's orders prevented her winning, but that did not disturb Jerry Coogan. That was their lookout.

"They spoiled the price on me once," he reminded himself. "Never again."

Dot looked up slyly. "Do we get 'em today, boss?" he asked huskily.

Coogan shook his head. "Not ripe yet," he said. "Wait till the odds is worth it."

Dot grinned in comprehension. Coogan understood the jockey, and Dot thought he understood Coogan.

But he was wrong; for this was the day. Coogan had laid his plans, his money was placed, he was ready for the question.

There was a thousand in Pittsburg, another in Cincinnati, a third in Chicago, a fourth in St. Louis, and a fifth in San Francisco. In each case the money was in trusty hands, and in each city it would be played late, so as to affect the track odds as little as possible. There was not a cent in New York. Coogan, watching the jockey groom Lily for her effort, considered his plans and was pleased. Most of his available capital was on the horse, and tonight he would be rich. Lily White was going to win.

Coogan had never considered that if a horse is continually persuaded to go dead lame at the end of six furlongs, she may acquire the habit. For Coogan did not understand horses.

Coogan did not give the word to Dot Harris until Lily White was saddled and the little jockey had been lifted to her back. Then he pulled Dot down and whispered to him:

"Go get 'em. This is the day."

The jockey turned gray with disappointment and disgust. "Aaw, say, boss," he protested. "Why'nt you wise me up? Here I ain't got a sou down on her."

"Thass all right," Coogan reassured him hurriedly. "There's a hundred riding for you—in Chi."

"On the square?"

"Ain't I always been on the square with you, Dot?"

The jockey's face lighted with relief. "You're on, boss," he promised.

And Coogan left him and made for the betting ring. What he saw when he arrived was pleasing, for on the blackboards around the ring the price on Lily White ranged uniform—15 to 1. But almost at once he was stirred by a momentary alarm.

From some outside source money was beginning to come in on Lily White. Coogan saw a man whom he knew as the agent for a Pittsburg bookmaker place $200 on the horse; and the man who took the bet swept that fifteen to one down to twelve to one, the others in the ring forthwith following suit.

A moment later another flood of Lily White money knocked the price to ten, and then to eight to one. Coogan's mind sought an expedient, found one, and took heroic measures. He drew from his pocket what funds he had with him, strode openly across the ring to that bookmaker who set the pace for the others, and with some ostentation placed $500 on Black Nose, the favorite, to win.

The crowd saw him. Men sought his elbow eagerly, clamoring for information. He shook them off angrily, with well-simulated disgust. And they were satisfied, each with his own interpretation of the incident. His bet was enough for them.

The track money that had wavered toward Lily White flooded to Black Nose again, and the flood increased, and the Pittsburg bookmaker's agent studied Coogan, then hurried to a telegraph office.

The price on Lily White crept back to ten to one, but the crowd ignored her now. In the final rush before post time she was forgotten save for some outside money that came in and failed to break the price. The great bulk of the money was on Black Nose to win.

The books closed with Lily White at ten to one—and that price would rule the paying off of wagers throughout the country.

Coogan computed his fortunes his mind as he brushed through the crowd toward the rail. And "She oughta been twenty to one," he grumbled.

He figured to win close to $50,000, he decided; and Lily White would win—of course.

Coogan trembled with a sudden rush of apprehension, reassured himself, and turned a steady, gambler's face toward where the horses were bunching for the start—a sixteenth of a mile down the track. They were prancing at the barrier; in a moment they would be off in that first whirlwind rush. Ten to one on five thousand—fifty thousand—minus his five hundred on Black Nose—forty-five thousand clear. Coogan's heart was like water, and his lips were moist as he considered that goodly sum. It had taken some scraping to raise the money he had bet; it had left the treasury of his New York bankbook all but bare.

He saw a flash in the sun where the horses were pivoting and wheeling and mincing at the barrier; then in a welter of dust, to the tune of a great roar from the crowded stands behind and above him, the gleaming forms leaped into action and plunged down the track toward him.

Coogan yelled. Every man about him yelled. He yelled and screamed. He did not feel the tug at his elbow till the horses had flashed past the stand and begun the turn. Then he gave attention to the boy standing there. The boy handed him three telegrams.

"They said they was important, Mr. Coogan," the boy announced. "But I waited like you said."

Coogan did not even hear. Eyes on the horses rounding the first turn, he ripped open the envelope, pulled out one message and gave it a swift glance.

"Chicago wants to play off one thousand two hundred dollars on Lily," it read. It was signed "Jerry"—Jerry Hart. Jerry was running Coogan's book in New York. The purport of that brief message came home to Coogan suddenly, and his heart all but stopped. He forgot the horses beating down the track for a moment and looked at the second message.

"They want to play off seven thousand three hundred dollars on Lily," it read. And the signature—"Jerry"—again.

That figure wrote itself indelibly on Coogan's mind in the barest fraction of time. He had had five thousand; they were offering seven thousand three hundred dollars. That must include his money, and there must be other heavy betting on Lily in the west. He felt cold drops trickle down behind his ears and into his eyes.

"If she wins now," he gasped under his breath, "I'm out over twenty thousand—busted."

The wind went out of him, he collapsed against the rail, his staring eyes sought the horses across the field.

Lily White was far in the lead and passing the half-mile.

She would win. He knew she would win; and the dreadful completeness of his ruin paralyzed him. Automatically he looked at the third telegram.

"Do I take them plays?" it asked.

Coogan went mildly insane. He consigned Jerry, with a burst of vivid language, to eternal fires. Then the anger went out of him and he pitied himself so that he wept. He felt all alone in the world—helpless, stripped of friends, funds, everything. Then a louder roar from the great throng in the stands caught him out of himself, captured his attention, forced him to watch the race again.

Lily White was a clear five lengths in the lead and going strong.

Coogan became sick. He groaned. Those beside him, even while they screamed entreaties to the horse that carried their hopes, edged aside to give him air; and he clung to the rail like a drunken man. Also, he prayed. Furthermore he cursed. He beat the air with his fists. His lamentations were terrible to hear.

He called on Dot Harris to pull up Lily. He urged Lily to drop dead in her stride. He besought Providence to knock her on the head with an ax. He begged the other horses in the race, by name, to come on and beat her. He commanded her legs to break break beneath her. As a last resort he suggested to the earth that it open before her and swallow her forever.

But Lily sped smoothly on, seven, eight lengths in the lead.

She was nearing the six-furlong pole, where in so many other races she had faltered, limped, and dropped back in the rush. Coogan never thought of that: but he heard a man beside him tell his neighbor:

"Now she'll go lame, and Black Rose'll come through."

Coogan stiffened in sudden hope, and broke into frantic bellowings. "There she goes! There's the end! Come on you Black Nose! Look at her drop back! There she goes! What'd I tell you?"

He clapped Coogan tremendously between the shoulders. The crowd about and above them in the stands were howling, singing, shouting, bellowing like maniacs. And the burden of their song was:

"Black Nose! Black Nose! Come on you! Come on!"

Coogan lifted up his voice and lifted up his voice and chorus, and his screams topped all the others. He pleaded, he begged and he implored.

"Drop dead! Drop dead!" he commanded his Lily. "Come on, you Black Nose!" he shouted.

Lily flashed past the six-furlong pole; and again a boy tugged Coogan's elbow. Another telegram. He pressed it into Coogan's hand. Coogan scarcely knew. He was watching Lily.

Three strides past the pole she pulled up with a terrific limp and dropped back toward the others as a stone drops down a well.

"Oi-yoi!" screamed Coogan in utter joy, then held his breath. Back went Lily, and and back and back. Coogan did not ask himself how the thing was happening. He had never heard that a horse may acquire a habit.

He only saw Lily White, as she had done so often before, stumbling and limping along, while Black Nose pulled up on her and passed her.

Dot Harris seemed to be using the whip like mad, but then Dot always seemed to be doing that when Lily went lame. Coogan, in overwhelming relief, saw only that Lily was now third, now fourth, in the scurry of horses rounding the far turn.

"She's done—" he decided, and in his own way gave thanks; and he wiped the sweat from his brow and took time to open the last telegram.

It, too, was from Jerry Hart.

"I took that seven thousand three hundred-dollar play," it read. "And more, too. If you're trying to double-cross me and let Lily win today, you're stuck. If you've played square with me—then you make a killing"

Coogan grinned complacently. Miraculous luck had saved him. He had thought to win by Lily's victory; instead, he would win by her defeat. He was so sure she was beaten that he scarce remembered the horses rocketing down the stretch till a thunderous roar from the stands alarmed him.

When Lily White went lame at the six-furlong post, Jockey Dot Harris lost his head for a moment at thought of that hundred riding for him at Chicago, and he took the whip to her. Lily never liked that; and she limped worse than ever, and dropped back all the faster.

Then the jockey remembered. pulled himself together, gathered Lily up, leaned over her withers and spoke to her. He pleaded with her, and as they struck into the turn, though she was four full lengths behind Black Nose, she began to drop her limp and pick up speed again.

Black Nose, in front, was taking things easy. Her rider counted the race as already won. Lily White, coming from behind with lengthening stride, passed one horse, and another, and Black Nose never knew his peril till her nose was at a level with his tail.

It was that great forward leap of Lily's which brought from the crowd in the stands the roar that caught Coogan's ear and turned him again to the track.

The horses were swinging into the stretch; and at first he could not make them out. They rounded the turn and came like demons toward the finish, swinging across the track, till the leaders were widely spaced, the others in a knot behind.

The dust smothered them, the colors flashed dimly. Both Black Nose and Lily White were bays, little to choose between them. Coogan, vaguely uneasy, did not at first understand that his horse had crept upon the leader again.

They were mere dots of brown and bay and black in the dust; and seen the dots grew with terrific speed as the horses came down the stretch; and Coogan shrank back a little at the rush of them, while the crowd roared and pleaded with Black Nose to come safely home.

Coogan recognised Lily White, and his skin turned cold, his bones were water; for he saw that she seemed to be fairly abreast of Black Nose, and he saw that Dot Harris, low on her back, was urging her desperately on. Lily no longer limped; her nose stretched straight in front of her, she was covering ground like a whirlwind. A tremendous thundering clamor from the stands urged her back, urged her on, besought Black Nose to shake her off into the ruck.

It seemed an eternity to Coogan that he watched them come down the stretch. He was paralyzed. Black Nose responded to urging and drew away a head, a neck, half a length. But Lily White held on and came again.

A hundred yards from the finish her nose was at Black Nose's middle. With every step it crept up. Half-way to the finish she fought her way to even terms with him.

Those last five great leaps, they moved like twin machines, not a breath to choose between them. Coogan's position was just short of the finish. He was pouring on Dot Harris' head every imprecation in the calendar. They should have scorched that little man, but the jockey, high up on Lily White's withers, had other things to think about. Black Nose, in a final effort, was holding Lily even.

The roar of the stands grew, in a tremendous crescendo, as the horses neared the wire. They dashed past Coogan; and he squinted automatically across the track. The line of his eye fell against each nose as they passed him. There was not a hair to choose.

"Black Nose," he begged feebly, for the strength was wrung out of him. "Black Nose. Take it. Dead heat anyway. My Gawd!"

For, as they flashed to the finish, Dot Harris had done a shrewd and daring thing. Far up and forward he threw himself, smashed out palm down between Lily White's ears and leaned with all his weight. Her head went down, her nose forward. She stumbled and all but fell.

But that blow had thrust her nose across the line a scant two inches in the lead and she had won.

They still call it Coogan's Killing, but that is not strictly accurate. He did recover.