Cliquot: A Racing Story of Ideal Beauty

By Kate Lee Ferguson

A beautiful thoroughbred stallion named Cliquot, owned by Neil Emory, has a habit of killing every jockey who has ever raced him. Mr. Emory has been looking for a jockey that can handle his stallion, having failed time and time again. Mr. Emory is finally brought a boy who is able to handle, control, and ride Cliquot. The two together are a well oiled, and beautiful machine, even though Neil Emory knows nothing about this rider, he allows him to race. And so the story begins.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wilder Publications, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781515455059

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Cliquot

A Racing Story of Ideal Beauty

by Kate Lee Ferguson

© 2022 Anpan Publications

Cover Image © Can Stock Photo / sportlibrary

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, used, or transmitted in any form or manner by any means: electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express, prior written permission of the author and/or publisher, except for brief quotations for review purposes only.

Trade Paperback ISBN 13: 978-1-5154-5504-2

E-book ISBN 13: 978-1-5154-5505-9

Table of Contents

Chapter I A Short Heat

Chapter II A Devil’s Laugh

Chapter III She Who Inflames with Love

Chapter IV Out from the Golden Day

Chapter V Pretty Good Arms

Chapter VI Backwards

Chapter VII Monday

Chapter VIII My Beautiful! My Beautiful!

Chapter IX The Chink of Gold

Chapter X False Courage

Chapter XI A Moonlight Drive

Chapter XII I Know You, Gwendoline

Chapter XIII Within a Week

Chapter XIV In the City of Violets

Chapter XV Soft as Zephyr

Chapter XVI At Last

Chapter I

A Short Heat

Another jockey had been killed on the race-course. The utmost excitement prevailed. The magnificent animal which had caused the death reared and plunged in the hands of a groom, his foam-covered sides catching the dust from his flying heels. The crowd poured and surged from the stand, while the band still played. The two other horses were led away, one quiet enough, but the other, a black gelding, fretting and sidling through the throng.

Mr. Emory, the owner of the restless stallion, hurried down the steps of the grand stand. He was a tall blond, and wore a soft gray hat. He grew a shade paler as he saw the dead man raised from the ground by two hostlers, his broken neck dangling over the arm of one of them as they bore him through the gate.

Poor fellow! he muttered, and he thought he could ride!

He whispered a few words to his groom, then asked a policeman to clear a passage, that his horse might be led away, a thing not easily accomplished, as with trembling limbs and quivering nostrils the beautiful creature rose repeatedly in his tracks, while the man swung to and fro at his bit. At length, he sprang forward and rushed for the stable; breaking loose beyond the gate, he dashed madly into his stall, when the door was closed upon him, while the crowd yielded and swayed and dashed about, in that aimless, foolish, reckless way so often noticed under such circumstances.

Of course, there was the usual flutter and stir on the ladies’ stand—a shutting of fans, a rustle of silk, and the starting forward of some excitable ones. Exclamations were heard of How horrible! Oh! I wish I’d never come! or, We women have no business here! while others thought, I would not have missed it, dreadful though it is!

The race was off—thousands of dollars staked and only one heat over. Which horse had won?

Now the police were busy, for the dead man’s form and the maddened stallion no longer held the rabble at bay. Tongues began to wag fast and faster, and hot and hotter grew the discussions about the track and pool stands. Yells of the officials for the police to clear the sward for the next race filled the air, and, finally, when the judge tapped the bell and the crier announced that the race would come off the next day, a little order was restored and the band began to blow its loudest, as a couple of fillies trotted through the gate.

But the excitement was over; and before long the stand was half-empty, while the soft roll of carriage wheels passed again and again through the exit and the women were gone.

Neil Emory walked over to his stable and gave a few directions to his groom, who had succeeded in partially quieting his racer; then, turning, he hailed a handsome carriage which was awaiting him a few steps beyond the course. His companion and friend, Reginald Gray, was inside, and the two drove rapidly away.

Emory pulled his hat over his eyes and sank back, as if he had lost a regiment of friends.

Hard lines, said Gray. Two jockeys in six months.

Yes, replied his companion, and where on earth will I find another willing to risk his neck on that beast?

A few hundred dollars will find one.

I doubt it, said Emory. I will have to make it a few thousands.

Well! considering the amount staked on the animal, you will have to make it a couple, I dare say.

They drove on in silence, the owner of the horse busy with his thoughts and unwilling to discuss a matter so close to his heart even with his best friend.

When they reached the city, Neil parted with his companion and went up to his rooms. His servant had lighted the gas and arranged his bath. He occupied a handsome suite of apartments, and his sitting-room was one of the prettiest in town, only the absence of the usual display of lovely women’s photos distinguished Neil Emory’s abode from all others. Perhaps in some far-away corner, veiled, was a picture, or, perhaps, only in his heart there existed such an image, though most people thought it but that of a rampant steed.

When he had finished his toilet, it was quite dark. Turning down the gas, he threw himself into a chair at the open window. Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts, wild and mad, surged through his brain.

Almost wealthy! Only a little while ago a comparatively poor man, alone in the world, well born, handsome and educated—but a little while since able to purchase a small but beautiful estate, situated a few miles from the city, sold at a bargain just as an unlooked for legacy from a distant relation enabled him to become the purchaser—but a little while ago so fortunate as to buy at auction a young thoroughbred stallion, which unexpectedly proved to be one of the greatest racers of the age, but was possessed of a disposition so unmanageable that but two men had been found able to ride him, and both of those had been killed. If he could but win this race, how much it would mean for him! Money he must have, come what might.

Oh! he exclaimed, rising and stretching forth his arms in the gloom, Cliquot, Cliquot, my beautiful, win for me, win for me, or I perish!

Two nights after the day of the race there was a reception at the residence of Mrs. Dale, one of the fashionable women of the city of N——. Every one spoke, more or less, of the accident on the course.

They say, said one, that he has offered an immense sum for a jockey.

Yes, said another; over two thousand dollars.

I dare say he’ll find some fool to ride the beast, added a third, and for far less money.

But, said a bystander, two days of the week have passed and Emory has not unearthed his man yet.

Just then Neil came down from the dressing-room and entered the parlors. Little Selina Maury was standing by the door.

Oh! I’m glad you’ve come! I thought you were so cut up that we wouldn’t see you to-night.

He smilingly bowed his acknowledgments.

Heavens! thought the girl, "I wish Bob