  Mr. Billings, the original West Side gas monopolist, had a pacer which could go on the street 2:40 or better, and my brother Gordon drove Tom, the silver-tailed trotter, who could crowd 2:30 very close. Billings lived on Lake Street, near Union Park, while we lived farther west, and we used to race horses nearly every day. One noon, on going home to lunch, Billings tackled us on Washington Street for a race. Tom drawing us two was a little handicapped, so it made the race about an even thing. Billings became so excited that he did not turn off at Sheldon Street, to his home, but kept on through Union Park. When at Robey Street we encountered a fat colored woman and her dog crossing the street. A policeman saw us coming and tried to get her out of the way, but we ran over the whole bunch. We turned right back to the policeman, who knew Billings had been instrumental in getting him his job. He said he was not much hurt, only his shins ached terribly where we had run over them with both wheels. The woman had been rolled over and over in the mud, but she said she did not care, only for her dog. We decided on the officer's advise that it was better to settle the case out of court, so we gave the woman a dollar for her dog. The next noon we had the race over again, and really it was rich to hear Billings and my brother both tell how easily they would have won had not their horses gone into the air. We West Siders had what we called the gentlemen's race track, on the south wing of Central Park (Garfield Park). Every Saturday afternoon many of the prominent men with their wives and fast horses assembled there, one to show the other how easy his horse could do the other fellow's nag up. Mr. Eighmy, a man past 75 years, usually had a fine stepper and he was a good driver. One day in a race of five or six, we could see from the grandstand that on turning into the back stretch they had purposely enclosed the old gent in a pocket, allowing Wrigley with Fly-Away and my brother Gordon with Tom to pass on the outside. Soon we saw the sulky in front and the one at the old gent's side, together with his own, all in a mixup and turning flipflops. When we reached the spot we found them all bruised and bleeding, with their horses loose on the prairie, but the old man was game, and this is what he said: "I ran between them purposely. I knew it would top us all over, but I said to myself, 'Old Eighmy, you haven't long to live at the best, and if you must die you might as well kill a couple of these damn mean cusses for the good of the community, after you're gone.'" Isaac Waxwell and Jim Rawley were forever wrangling. Jim was usually on the judge's stand and Isaac claimed that Jim did not give him a fair show. He certainly should have had a fair show, for it was rich to see him drive in the dead heat; he had a peculiar way of leaning forward and sticking out his elbows so it looked as though he was pushing on the reins. John Brennock, a pioneer packer from the stockyards, was a unique character. He was a big man with a large head, and his mouth was very large in proportion to his |
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