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Lottery in the Purchase of Yearlings BY SALVATOR. In his book, "From Gladiateur to Persimmon," which should be in the library of every well-read turf devotee, Sydenham Dixon "Vigilant," of the London Sportsman writes in his chapter on Gladiateur: "The race i. e., the Newmarket Biennial Stakes of ISC I was won by the notorious Kangaroo, which was sold almost immediately to the Marquis of Hastings for 0,-000, and will probably stand on record for all time as the worst bargain ever made in horseflesh on the part of the purchaser." This expression of opinion was delivered something like a quarter-century ago, and in the interval many new criteria of worst and best have been established in the racing world. At the time he wrote "Vigilant" perhaps had no inkling of the developments which he would live to see, especially in regard to values and bargains, good and bad. In recent years more than one transaction might dispute the palm with the sale of Kangaroo as the "worst bargain in horseflesh" of all time and the end is not yet. Just at present the pleasant pastime of plutocrats or near plutocrats seems to be the paying of preposterous prices for indifferent horses. One does not like to do anything that, in the language of the curb, might tend toward "bearing the market," but as one regards the sums joyously given up for steeds whose names will never no, never go thundering down the corridors of time nor anywhere else, for that matter one can only wonder, in his secret soul, what a real first-class race horse, supposing one should, by some strange freak of fate, happen to appear "in our midst," would be worth. On the basis of the prices paid for numerous steeds with a noble capacity for getting beaten "the next time out," what, oh, what, would be a fair valuation for such a racer, for instance, as Luke Blackburn, Hindoo, Miss Woodford, The Bard, Troubadour, Hanover. Salvator, Pirenze, Henry of Navarre, Hermis or Man o War? A real king or queen, whose greatness was self-evident and beyond the frenzies of the press agent or the cinema to exaggerate? Would there be enough coin of the realm in circulation properly to requite an owner who relinquished him? It is doubtful if his real worth could be expressed in millions one would need to have billions, yea, billions, in order so to do. Of course the paying of these prices "makes the game good." But unless in their turn the steeds in question make good, on their own account, there is sure to be a backfire that is no good to anybody. There is never more than one sequel to inflation, and that is collapse. The supply of enthusiasts with more money than judgment of race horses is not unlimited ; though, of course, viewing the sport from another angle, that is perhaps all the more reason for separating them from their simoleons with the greatest possible expedition. And everybody seems to be "stepping on the gas." These remarks, be it said, apply only to performers actual. They have no bearing upon the yearling question. The paying of high prices for yearlings is quite another matter. It is something that calls for setting em up on quite another alley. The buying of a yearling is never anything but a speculation in futures. It is guesswork pure and simple. Judgment, as has a thousand times been proved, has little or nothing to do with it. After the pedigree sharp,-the crack trainer and the foxy factor have taken their pick out of a bunch, a greenhorn may come along and "grab off," for a trifle, a colt capable, a year later, of making all the fancy furniture look like the proverbial thirty cents. j Everybody knows and admits this. It is a part of the game. When a yearling is led into the sales ring, he is just a segment of ; the "great unknown," and the man who buys him is merely speculating on the possibilities of tomorrow. It is permissible to let the sky be the limit under such circumstances. Besides, what more beautiful or alluring creature is there, under the sun, than a thoroughbred yearling? I know many a man who would not give a second glance at the fairest of Mr. Ziegfelds "Follies" which are so many and so fair, if a thoroughbred yearling were at the moment soliciting his attention. The yearlings are the true jeu-nesse doree of the turf world. It is right that they should come or go high. And while it may not be pleasant, it is nevertheless-logical that if the two-year-old or three-year-old prove disappointing, that also is part of the game. The yearling game is played at the ringside, not on the race course. It is there that those who dip into it must really look for their satisfactions. If they experience no. others, there should be no heart-burnings, -no- disillusions. King Thomas lives in history because he brought 0,000 as a yearling. He never won a race. But, to use the phrase beloved of the grandiloquent, "his fame is secure." To Senator Hearst;- who "paid the price," 0,000 really meant little. Everything considered, I believe he got his moneys worth. Of course, when it came to racing, King Thomas proved to be just another of those "full" brothers fit only to carry feed and water to their distinguished relatives. But nobo.dy grieves for the breeder when a colt that brought him a few hundred turns out a champion, whose winnings approximate or excel 00,000. Why, then, should not a breeder be entitled to pour out libations to the gods over such a yearling as King Thomas Why, indeed! There is only one why. Buyers display a tendency to fight shy of yearlings that come out of the same baskets as these bloomers. That is, sometimes, not always. Sometimes they come right back for more. Which is another of the allurements of the yearling game. And this is as it should be. The yearling that fails to make a stake winner needs no excuse. Only unreasonable persons insist upon such sequels to their stories. The yearlings hour of glory is when the hammer falls. In which respect he is perhaps the most perfect of all exemplars of the poets words: "One crowded hour of glorious life Is worth an age without a name."
