caused him more anguish.
Dressed in his
first pair of long trousers, the tearful boy was driven to St. Andrew’s for the
opening day of the new term. His mother handed him over to a matron who looked
as if she had been chiseled out of the same piece of stone as Miss Steadman.
The first boy Keith set eyes on as he entered the front door was Desmond
Motson, and he was later horrified to discover that they were not only in the
same house, but the same dormitory.
He didn’t sleep
the first night.
The following
morning, Keith stood at the back of the school hall and listened to an address
from Mr. Jessop, his new headmaster, who hailed from somewhere in England
called Winchester. Within days the new boy discovered that Mr. Jessop’s idea of
fun was a ten-mile cross-country run followed by a cold shower. That was for
the good boys who, once they had changed and were back in their rooms, were
expected to read Homer in the original.
Keith’s reading
had lately concentrated almost exclusively on the tales of “our gallant war
heroes” and their exploits in the front line, as reported in the Courier. After
a month at St. Andrew’s he would have been quite willing to change places with
them.
During his first
holiday Keith told his mother that if schooldays were the happiest days of your
life, there was no hope for him in the future. Even she had been made aware
that he had few friends and was becoming something of a loner.
The only day of
the week Keith looked forward to was Wednesday, when he could escape from St.
Andrew’s at midday and didn’t have to be back until lights out. Once the school
bell had rung he would cycle the seven miles to the nearest racetrack, where he
would spend a happy afternoon moving between the railings and the winners’
enclosure. At the age of twelve he thought of himself as something of a wizard
of the turf, and only wished he had some more money of his own so he could
start placing serious bets.
After the last
race he would cycle to the offices of the Courier and watch the first edition
coming off the stone, returning to school just before lights out.
Like his father,
Keith felt much more at ease with journalists and the racing fraternity than he
ever did with the sons of Melbourne society. How he longed to tell the careers
master that all he really wanted to do when he left school was be the racing
correspondent for the Sporting Globe, another of his father’s papers. But he
never let anyone into his secret for fear that they might pass the information
on to his mother, who had already hinted that she had other plans for his
future.
When his father
had taken him racing-never informing his mother or Miss Steadman where they
were going ...
Keith would
watch as the old man placed large sums of money on every race, occasionally
passing over sixpence to his son so he could also try his luck.
To begin with
Keith’s bets did no more than reflect his father’s selections, but to his
surprise he found that this usually resulted in his returning home with empty
pockets.
After several
such Wednesday -afternoon trips to the racetrack, and having discovered that
most of his sixpences ended up in the bookmaker’s bulky leather bag, Keith
decided to invest a penny a week in the Sporting Globe.
As he turned the
pages, he learned the form of every jockey, trainer and owner recognized by the
Victoria Racing Club, but even with this newfound knowledge he seemed to lose
just as regularly as before. By the third week of term he had often gambled
away all his pocket money.
Keith’s life
changed the day he spotted a book advertised in the Sporting Globe called How
to Beat the Bookie, by “Lucky Joe.” He talked Florrie into lending him half a
crown, and sent a postal order off to the address at the bottom of the
advertisement. He greeted the postman every morning until the book appeared
nineteen days later. From the moment Keith opened the first page, Lucky Joe
replaced Homer as his compulsory
Dressed in his
first pair of long trousers, the tearful boy was driven to St. Andrew’s for the
opening day of the new term. His mother handed him over to a matron who looked
as if she had been chiseled out of the same piece of stone as Miss Steadman.
The first boy Keith set eyes on as he entered the front door was Desmond
Motson, and he was later horrified to discover that they were not only in the
same house, but the same dormitory.
He didn’t sleep
the first night.
The following
morning, Keith stood at the back of the school hall and listened to an address
from Mr. Jessop, his new headmaster, who hailed from somewhere in England
called Winchester. Within days the new boy discovered that Mr. Jessop’s idea of
fun was a ten-mile cross-country run followed by a cold shower. That was for
the good boys who, once they had changed and were back in their rooms, were
expected to read Homer in the original.
Keith’s reading
had lately concentrated almost exclusively on the tales of “our gallant war
heroes” and their exploits in the front line, as reported in the Courier. After
a month at St. Andrew’s he would have been quite willing to change places with
them.
During his first
holiday Keith told his mother that if schooldays were the happiest days of your
life, there was no hope for him in the future. Even she had been made aware
that he had few friends and was becoming something of a loner.
The only day of
the week Keith looked forward to was Wednesday, when he could escape from St.
Andrew’s at midday and didn’t have to be back until lights out. Once the school
bell had rung he would cycle the seven miles to the nearest racetrack, where he
would spend a happy afternoon moving between the railings and the winners’
enclosure. At the age of twelve he thought of himself as something of a wizard
of the turf, and only wished he had some more money of his own so he could
start placing serious bets.
After the last
race he would cycle to the offices of the Courier and watch the first edition
coming off the stone, returning to school just before lights out.
Like his father,
Keith felt much more at ease with journalists and the racing fraternity than he
ever did with the sons of Melbourne society. How he longed to tell the careers
master that all he really wanted to do when he left school was be the racing
correspondent for the Sporting Globe, another of his father’s papers. But he
never let anyone into his secret for fear that they might pass the information
on to his mother, who had already hinted that she had other plans for his
future.
When his father
had taken him racing-never informing his mother or Miss Steadman where they
were going ...
Keith would
watch as the old man placed large sums of money on every race, occasionally
passing over sixpence to his son so he could also try his luck.
To begin with
Keith’s bets did no more than reflect his father’s selections, but to his
surprise he found that this usually resulted in his returning home with empty
pockets.
After several
such Wednesday -afternoon trips to the racetrack, and having discovered that
most of his sixpences ended up in the bookmaker’s bulky leather bag, Keith
decided to invest a penny a week in the Sporting Globe.
As he turned the
pages, he learned the form of every jockey, trainer and owner recognized by the
Victoria Racing Club, but even with this newfound knowledge he seemed to lose
just as regularly as before. By the third week of term he had often gambled
away all his pocket money.
Keith’s life
changed the day he spotted a book advertised in the Sporting Globe called How
to Beat the Bookie, by “Lucky Joe.” He talked Florrie into lending him half a
crown, and sent a postal order off to the address at the bottom of the
advertisement. He greeted the postman every morning until the book appeared
nineteen days later. From the moment Keith opened the first page, Lucky Joe
replaced Homer as his compulsory
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