Rooks, King & "Tote"

GREAT BRITAIN

Rooks, King & "Tote"

Even the big black rooks (big as broiling chickens) of the Tower of London had a part last week in the Empire's celebration of a great day: the 20th anniversary of George V's accession to rule as King, Defender of the Faith, Emperor of India.

Irish Guardsmen at the Tower bought a big bag of what rooks like. Pompous in his red coat, the eldest Guardsman, bag in hand, surrounded by expectant birds, made a few appropriate remarks, chiefly for the benefit of humans who had gathered to watch. "Sure and our Holy Mither herself, may she bless His Majesty!" cried the old Guardsman, "And Divil take his enemies, bad cess to 'em!"

Opening his bag he swished out a shower of yellow corn. Cawing, hopping, flapping and gobbling, the Royal Rooks celebrated. Replete at last, they waddled off toward benches on Tower Green, flopped up with difficulty to perch on top rails, croaked contentedly, and with their large, dark, watery eyes ogled human bench-roosters.

There was more ogling at Buckingham Palace. The biggest crowd since His Majesty's nearly fatal pneumonia (TIME, Dec. 3, 1928, et seq.) began to gather outside the tall iron fence not long after dawn. About 8 a. m. a rumor escaped mysteriously from the Palace that the Sovereign had risen from his Royal and Imperial bed. Half an hour later he and Queen Mary were said, on the high authority of a scullery maid, to be eating savory kippers. About 9 a. m. the patient, patriotic crowd learned that "the King is examining congratulatory telegrams and cablegrams from all over the world"--this from an important, reliable equerry. Denser and denser grew the crowd, but with no ill-mannered clamor for Their Majesties to show themselves at a window.

Along toward half-past-ten official observance of the day began with a line-up in the Palace of Royal servants 20 years or more in service. Representing the four "peoples" of the British Isles--English, Welsh, Irish, Scotch--they stood with proud, palpitating breasts ready to receive the King's silver "faithful service" medal. A little painfully, for his fingers are not so nimble as before his illness, George V pinned and pinned.

Bombardier Benott was last to be medaled. For 20 years he has been firing 21-gun salutes. As soon as he decently could, after being medaled, Bombardier Benott marched round to the front of the Palace, made ready to blaze away once more. Hundreds of eyes peered through the iron railing, focused on the small door at the right of the Palace, on the long red plush carpet leading to the dark maroon (almost black) Royal Daimler. Briskly, in an impeccable grey topper, King George walked the carpet, squiring Queen Mary amid lusty cheers. He was going to cele- brate in 100% English fashion by attending the races--for the first time since he went to Goodwood in July 1928. Very, very slowly, at less than a walking pace, the Daimler snailed across the courtyard, dipped like an infinitely cautious tortoise out the Palace gate, crept past cheering thousands massed along Constitution Hill --Their Majesties bowing all the time.

"My mother told me," Queen Mary once said resignedly to a Lady-in-Waiting, "that it was the People's right to look at us. I try to remember this when it would be a luxury to draw the curtains of my car. I hope that neither George nor I may ever selfishly deprive our people of one of their rights."

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!--21 times sounded the guns at Buckingham Palace, the guns in Hyde Park, the guns at the Tower of London, firing all together at high noon.

Crowds at the Newmarket Races told each other by the thousand with breathless exclamations: "The King is smoking a cigar!"

In his 65th year, with pneumonia just behind him, with his doctors optimistic but warning that the Royal heart is weak, George V stood smiling and puffing in the Royal Box as the horses lined up, sucking his favorite long pale weed with relish.

Strolling down from the stand a little later, the King-Emperor approached with frank curiosity a "tote" or totalizator, a modification of the French pari mutuel betting machine, which has been introduced at British meets since the onset of His Majesty's illness. On a series of automatic dials the machine shows the total of bets on each horse up to the moment of starting and the grand total of bets. On the basis of these totals the totalizator automatically sets the odds. In "tote" or pari mutuel betting a percentage of the whole sum wagered is deducted as a fee. What remains is divided between those who have wagered on the winner. If only one person has bet on the first horse he gets it all. If 1,000 have backed the winner the winnings are split 1,000 ways.

Although the promoters of the tote call it "the acme of simplicity," most Englishmen have not yet quite got the hang of this outlandish French machine, and last week King George approached his first tote with frank diffidence.

"Supposing I wanted a ticket for Suada in the fourth race?" said the King-Emperor tentatively to the sleek little man in the tote, "What do I do?"

"What denomination of ticket, Your Majesty?" questioned the clerk in return, "A fiver?"

"Oh no," said His Majesty, "One guinea."

Burrrrzipppp! The clerk touched an electric key, and, exactly like a U. S. movie ticket machine, the tote poked out a ticket for Suada, value of one guinea. Fingering this novel pasteboard, puffing his pale Havana, George V walked back to the Royal Box with Suada's owner, his son-in-law, the spidery-limbed Earl of Harewood, spouse of Princess Mary. In the fourth race Royalty's loping Suada was almost lost among the last of the also-rans, and lost with it was the King's guinea. A genial loser, George V discreetly made known that he was having fun, that he planned to stay through the whole series of Newmarket races.

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