Lives in Cricket No 18 - FR Foster

gives a fair indication of the sort of life he was leading and the deterioration of his mind: Time: Early morning of Derby Day, 1927. Place: Bureau of a well known London hotel. Characters: My best friend in that hotel – night porter Robert Newman, the late Walter Griggs, the racehorse trainer, myself. Action: FRF propping up the counter, discussing with the night porter, over a night-cap, the possible result of the Derby, to take place later in the day. In walks the ‘Acme of Perfection’ in evening dress, goes across to the covered sandwiches, removes the lid and commences to devour sandwich after sandwich. ‘Hungry?’ said I, smiling wickedly. ‘Umph!’ replies Acme, ‘not so bad.’ He then proceeds to help himself to more sandwiches, with an ‘ell of a twinkle’ in his eye. ‘What – what’s going to win the Derby?’ I stuttered. ‘Hot Night,’ he stammered. ‘Lord loves us,’ I said, ‘but surely a call-boy never had a hot night. I will lay you 10 to 1 against your dud.’ ‘Done,’ said he. I take another sip of my night-cap and then offer 8 to 1. ‘Taken,’ said he. I look at Robert and my friend winks. Mistaking the wink I offer 7 to 1. ‘That’s enough,’ said the sandwich king as he passed £3 to my pal behind the counter, and so he went to bed. ‘Do you know who that is?’ said Robert. ‘No,’ I replied. ‘Well, that is Walter Griggs, the trainer,’ murmured the N.P. The nightcap having now gone the way of all nightcaps I make the best of the situation and retire to my couch with the feeling I shall be minus a ‘pony’ before W.G. partakes of his next sandwich. On the morning of the great day (after a little sleep) a friend rang me up on the phone. I was then emerging from a state of coma, and the following conversation ensued: ‘Coming on the Pullman, Frank?’ ‘No,’ I replied, ‘I go by road.’ ‘You will never get there,’ he said. ‘Good enough Walter,’ I rambled, ‘my book is closed, 25 to 3 is quite enough gambling for me.’ (I thought for the moment my friend was eating sandwiches.) ‘Is that you Billy dear?’ murmured a sweet voice over the wire. ‘No!’ said I, ‘my name is Rothschild, and my middle name is Rowbotham.’ ‘Ring off!’ she screamed, ‘you are not quite the thing.’ The lady was perfectly correct, I felt like it. Racing began at 1.30, the second race 2.30. I decided to miss the first event and took my departure from the very centre of London in a taxi, all by myself, at 12.30. 94 War and the 1920s