Evening Star Newspaper, November 17, 1929, Page 109

THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C., NOVEMBER 17, 1929. Did You Ever Hold a Ticket on a 100-to-1 Whether or Not You Have Had That Thrill, You Will Enjoy This True Story of How Mc- Fonso, the ‘“‘Pride of Maryland and the District,” Won a Famous Race at Old Benning— A “Killing” .Which Was Celebrated by All the Home Folk for Many Miles Around. BY WILLIAM H. CLAGETT. SURVEY of those who follow the races would unquestionably show that not one regular patron in & - hundred can boast the distinction of ever having won on a 100-to-1 shot. Long odds and the habitual bettor are anything but synonyms. Yet every once and so often the possible chance of some rank o_ut,- sider reaches the ear of a wide-awake rail bird, who tucks the information away until the psy- . chological moment, and as a consequence he and his pals enjoy a “killing.” True, such occasions are conspicuous by their rarity, only a few taking place during each year, but when one does come to pass the story goes along and the public in general is tickled nearly sidewise. Old-time lovers of the “sport of kings” in the District of Columbia, Maryland and Virginia will remember such a happening nearly 30 years ago, when McFonso, the grand old chestnut gelding owned by Frank Keys of Linden, Md., a despised outsider in the betting, ran rings around a classy field of eight at a mile and three-eighths over the hurdles, and breezed home in front at 150 to 1. Seldom in the history of the Benning track, famous rendezvous of Washington's elite back in the days when the town was on the “free” and horse racing flourished, was there a gayer or more brilliant gathering than on that No- vember day when the sturdy son of MacDuff- Lottie S. scampered down the stretch and won by himself. As if to prepare the notable assemblage for what was to come later, that sterling little knight of the pigskin, Winnie O'Connor, who in after years won the hearts of all sportsmen in France, staged the remarkable by taking down the first two races on the card with the shifty colt Sydney Lucas—enough in itself to cause the most unsophisticated to lcok for the unusual. FOLLOWING ©O’Connor’s masterful riding, all was set for the hurdles. Such game old timbertoppers as Julius Caesar, Governor Griggs, Phoebus, Bob White and The Lost Chord were among those selected for the journey. ‘The Caesar horse ruled favorite at 8 to 5, with Phoebus a heavily backed second choice at 2! 10 1. A ton of money went in on the last named just before the start. Bob White at 4s, Governor Griggs at 6s and The Lost Chord at 12s all had supporters. Odds on McFonso never dropped below 100 to 1, and despite the continuous dribble of “chicken feed” that poured in on him from rail birds, rubbers, stable boys, farmhands, oyster shuckers and the ever-active brigade of long-shot snipers, such astute layers as 8ol Lichtenstein, Joe Vendig and George Wheelock never wavered and were showing 150 to 1 against the 5-year-old’s chances when Mars Cassidy shooed ’em off to an almost perfect start As a matter of fact, there was an under-the- surface angle to McFonso's life that caused the distinguished, ultra-conservative Benning set to Jook with disdain upon his chances. The Lin- den crack, as a 2-year-old, had raced as an outlaw-—yes, a regular outlaw. More than once he had been seen in colors at such disreputable tracks as Alexander Island, St. Asaph’s and Arlington, so, when he made his appearance at Benning under new ownership, he being the first of a small number of horses to be rein- stated by the Jockey Club, more than one aris- tocratic nose went out of joint as he passed through the paddock gate to the track. It required more than the haughty snubs of “McFonso realized that Johm;y Grimes had given him his head at last!” a few racing elite to dampen the spirit of the “terrible bandit” who in time was destined to become known far and wide as “the pride of Maryland and the District of Columbia.” For three years, or since the day Enos C. Keys, breeder and huntsman and brother of Frank Keys, purchased him from Mars Cassidy and Bob Hewlett after winning a race at Arlington, poor old McFonso had done all in his power o live down his past and lead an honorable life. On scores of occasions he had made it possi- ble for the Keys boys, Frank, Enie, Ed and Harry; of their cousins, the Rays, to crown a sweetheart gueen of love and beauty at various jousting matches held in the State. His prowess at these entertainments, together with his rep- utation as a fast and dangerous hurdler, soon spread over into Virginia, and for years no racer in either of the sister Commonwealths was feared more at county fairs and horse shows than he. Nor was the big chestnut the least bit of a slacker or prone to be uppish. When not rac- ing or jousting or carrying one of the Keys- Rays contingent on a chase for the elusive fox, as like as not he would be drawing dear old “Ma” Keys in buckboard or buggy over the rolling hills of Montgomery County or doing other chores at her big farm, Edgewood, in Linden. So, on this memorable afternoon when he galloped home to win at such exceptionally*long odds, not only a goodly part of Maryland, but all surrounding country, was generously repre- sented to cheer him to victory. THERE was only a short delay on the post, when the ever-efficient Cassidy caught the eight in line and sent them on their way, with the favorite, Julius Caesar, out in front, closely followed by McFonso, Phoebus and Bob White, and the others strung out. Johnny Grimes, a little ebony-hued rider, also a product of the Old Line State, had the leg up on the equine farmhand, and binoculars weren’t needed to see that he had been instructed to play a wait- ing game—to let the leaders fight it out among themselves and hold his mount in readiness to cut loose the moment they tired. That Johmny obeyed orders can be youched for by all who saw him take the first hurdle. So strenuous were his strong-armed methods, in fact, that not a few present would willingly have laid odds that McFonso would be strangled before the finish was reached. Passing the judges the first time around and for nearly a mile, Julius Caesar maintained his lead, with the rest of the field fairly well bunched. The Lost Chord, Bob White and Mc- Fonso, in the order named, hung doggedly to the heels of the pacemaker, with all jumping nicely. The pace was growing faster and faster as each pole was passed, and just as the mile flag was reached Jockey Barry shot The Lost Chord ahead of Julius Caesar like the latter was tied. A cry of dismay went up from the cohorls of McFonso enthusiasts as they watched the unemotional Grimes sit like a stoic on their idol, not knowing, perhaps, that Johnny was riding strictly to orders. All the way up the backstretch the second time, around the far turn, past the mile pole, the mile-and-an- eighth pole, the mile-and-a-quarter pole, the two leaders went unchallenged. It was a little more than a quarter of a mile to the finish and two broad gaps of daylight separated The Lost Chord,and Julius Caesar from their pursuers, with the backers of both front horses cheering them to the echo. It certainly looked as though one of the two would win. Then, all of a sudden, a shrill voice rose above the clamor. “Look at McFonso come!” shouted Buck Wilburn, valet in chief to the Montgom- epy County crack, informing his associates that the psychological moment had arrived. Into the stretch and over the last jump came The Lost Chord and Julius Caesar almost to- gether, with the oncoming McFonso overtakin the pair at every stride. Realizing that Johnny Grimes had given him his head at last, the courageous chestnut was now roused. With his long, sinewy neck stretched out, his eyes blaz- ing with the fire of battle, every semblance of sluggishness departed, he bore down on his rivals with irresistible speed. Once on even terms with the pacemakers, the little Negro rider let out another wrap on his pastoral mount and the game gelding, the despised, neglected, spurned outsider, expanded his chest, drew up a few pounds of horsepower from his bellows and blew down the stretch and under the wire two full lengths to the merry, with Julius Caesar five or six lengths in front of The Losf Chord and the others beaten off. And how that crowd did yell when it was apparent to all that nothing short of a fall could prevent the son of Macduff winning! Losers as well as winners joined in the hulla- baloo that followed. Tobacco growers, sea food barons, club fellows, country gentlemen, yokels, bookmakers and common or garden race-track attendants vied with each other to pay homage to McFonso. Even the sedate stewards, the Messrs. Jesse Brown, S. S. Howland and Sam- uel Ross, chipped in their dignified “bravos” to the general demonstration. And when the game runner galloped back all dripping to the stand, with the blood marks on his side, he was cheered as no other horse had been cheered at Benning for many a day. And he had earned it, for not only had he proved himself one of the stoutest hurdlers in training, but by his lion-hearted courage was able to uphold the honor and glory of his sovereign Common- wealth. Notwithstanding the remarkable reception tendered him, the gentle-mannered jumper was by all odds the coolest and most collected of any at the party. That he was truly apprecia- tive of the honor accorded him cannot be gain- said, but deep down in his heart he longed for the caresses and plaudits of his loved ones at Linden. He yearned to feel the gentle touch of “Ma” Keys as she patted his nose, and hear the simple words of endearment that he knew would be forthcoming from the lips of his - neighbors. Clean limbed and bright, this gal- lant old thoroughbred, as sweet tempered an animal as ever peeked through a bridle, craved these homely attentions, even at the cost of a few infractions of the rules and inconveniencc of his attendants. ATIENTLY waiting for the ever-faithful Wilburn to blanket, halter and lead him back to Ivy City, where he was stalled, the erst- while outlaw gave no indication of what was to take place a few minutes later. He submitted passively to the usual bath and rubdown, but with the evening ablution over and feeling him- self free from all paraphernalia, he gave a slight whinney, perked his ears and made a dash for home. Unmindful of the dangers that confronted him along the route he selected, the homesick hurdler made a beeline for Linden, via Brook- land, thence along the B. & O. Railroad tracks to Lamond, where he left the ties for the open road again and continued on to Sligo. Taking no chances of being unduly detained, the fleet- footed racer disregarded the attempt of an aged toll-gate keeper at the last-named place to col- lect his tax. Nor did he stop until he reached his destination, where at the Keys farm he cleared a 5-foot farm gate, made for the house and nickered meaningly under the window until Miss Lizzie Keys answered his call. It is need- less to add that the truant was welcomed. After neighbors were summoned and greetings passed, the hero of Benning partook of his supper and then hit for the hay. Volumes have been written about the human- like qualities, both commendable and otherwise, so often displayed by the thoroughbred racer. The oft-repeated tales of how James R. Keene's unbeaten Colin would never parade to the post unless accompanied by his pal, a little stable pony; the almost unbelievable actions of the grand old black mare Imp, who when winning a race at an advanced age at Gravesend, delib- erately turned her head to the band and bowed to acknowledge the tribute paid her when the musicians struck up with “My Coal Black Lady,” and the devilish behavior of the vicious maneater, All Gold, in clinging by the mouth to the ear of a rival to prevent him from win- ning, are only a few examples of the many instances that have taken place in the history of - the turf. Yet, with them all, it is doubtful if the race horse ever lived that was more famed for such characteristics than McFonso. The pet of Lin- den was docility itself when around children, “Ma” Keys often leaving the great horse fo guard her grandchildren when necessity called her away from home to attend to some business. It was as much because of his intense love for McFonso, as chagrin over the taunts of a jeerer who kept panning him unmercifully for being disqualified after having finished first in a close race at Marlboro, that Moses Jackson, a prominent colored jockey on Western tracks in the late nineties, shot and killed his tor- mentor, another Negro, named Wedge, in the Southern Maryland town. The tragedy occurred before McFonso made his sensational win at Benning. “Enie” Keys had been meeting with excepticnal suceess racing his new purchase at county fairs in Maryland and Virginia, and was more than delighted to run across such a clever race rider as Jackson, who had drifted East from Chicago after winning the much-coveted Stockyard Stakes on Tea Tray. The little rider was flat broke at the time and was equaliy pleased to land with the Linden horseman, and he straightway proceeded to fall desperately in love with McFonso. Reports of Keys' success with his consistent racer soon spread throughout Maryland, and it was not long before accounts of the wonder horse’s achievements reached the ear of Phil Roman, famous athlete and sportsman of Cum- berland, who numbered among other good ones in his stable Haslett and Consolation, two jumpers he thought unbeatable by anything in the State. A. B. Suit, owner of the crack stecplechaser Lotion, was another native Mary- lander who figured his timber topper as good as any that ever cleared a brush, so when the three owners agreed to test the merits of their respec- tive representatives in a 2!5-mile race through the field at Marlboro, great was the crowd that assembled for the running. IT was a proud day for “Mose” Jackson when he flung his leg over the back of McFonso w0 steer him in a race that meant so much to his benefactor. And if ever a boy was out to win, it was this happy-go-lucky youngster. *“Mose” demonstrated clearly the first time around that he was capable of obeying orders, but, fearful lest he might succumb to temptation of trying to make a runaway race of it, Keys cautioned him twice from the infield to lay in behind the pacemakers until the stretch turn was reached. “Don’t ya fret about me, Mistah Enie,” sang out the jockey as he went over the Liverpool, his pearly teeth glistening in the rays of the afternoon sun. “I'm booked to give a party to- morrow night and, buh-lieve me, I'se gonno give it!” Poor little Moses never gave his party. By an unfortunate mixup at one of the jumps, which the judges laid at the door of McFonso's rider, interference was claimed by the owner of Consolation. The claim was allowed and Mc- Fonso, notwithstanding the fact that he had breezed home in front, was promptly disqual< ified and the race given to the Roman entry. d Considerable feeling was displayed by Mec- Fonso enthusiasts over the decision, but the judges remained obdurate; their ruling prevailed and Moses Jackson was nearly heartbroken. Not only did he lose the race, but from the moment his number was taken down, the man Wedge proceeded to taunt him for the “miser= able mess” he had made of the whole affair, This last was the straw that broke the camel's back with the disconsolate jockey. To have certain victory snatched from his grasp, when apparently all was over but the shouting, was enough, but to be taken to task by “one of his own” for something he felt absolutely blameless, was too much for his temperamental nature. Twice during the afternoon he begged his tor- mentor to desist. Wedge failed to heed the boy's warning and later in the evening when he resumed his harangue, Moses, unable to contain himself longer, whipped out a gun that belonged to his Continued on Twenty-second Page -