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Grey Timothy
aka Pallard The Punter
- GenresCrime
146 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1913
About the author
Edgar Wallace
2,602 books270 followersRichard Horatio Edgar Wallace (1875-1932) was a prolific British crime writer, journalist and playwright, who wrote 175 novels, 24 plays, and countless articles in newspapers and journals.
Over 160 films have been made of his novels, more than any other author. In the 1920s, one of Wallace's publishers claimed that a quarter of all books read in England were written by him.
He is most famous today as the co-creator of "King Kong", writing the early screenplay and story for the movie, as well as a short story "King Kong" (1933) credited to him and Draycott Dell. He was known for the J. G. Reeder detective stories, The Four Just Men, the Ringer, and for creating the Green Archer character during his lifetime.
Over 160 films have been made of his novels, more than any other author. In the 1920s, one of Wallace's publishers claimed that a quarter of all books read in England were written by him.
He is most famous today as the co-creator of "King Kong", writing the early screenplay and story for the movie, as well as a short story "King Kong" (1933) credited to him and Draycott Dell. He was known for the J. G. Reeder detective stories, The Four Just Men, the Ringer, and for creating the Green Archer character during his lifetime.
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Displaying 1 - 7 of 7 reviews
November 17, 2024
A few days ago I finished reading Grey Timothy or Pallad the Punter, I don't know why, but I would not want to be called Pallad the Punter. Of course, I suppose I wouldn't want to be called Grey Timothy either, but since he's a horse I guess it's not so bad. Grey Timothy is a novel written by Edgar Wallace in 1913. Wallace wrote a lot, I'm not sure how he got anything else done he wrote so much. And one of the few hundred novels he wrote is the one I just finished reading, Grey Timothy.
We begin our story with two letters:
Brian Pallard wrote to his uncle:
"Dear Uncle Peter,—Though I have never seen you, I have heard my father speak so highly of your many qualities that I am looking forward to seeing you and my cousins, on my visit to England. As you know, I was born in Kent, though everybody here regards me as Australian bred. Is that a tribute to my temporary sojourn at Oxford, or is it not?
Anyway, I will let you know just when I arrive. I am sending this to your office, because I do not know your address. I have been having a great time in Melbourne.—Yours ever,
Brian P."
Mr. Peter Callander wrote back.
It was a letter carefully considered, and as carefully worded; every comma was in its place, every 't' was crossed. It was the type of letter you might suppose that a conservative Englishman doing a conservative business would write.
It was a letter harmonizing with his correct frock-coat of conservative cut, his plain trousers, his cloth spats and his heavy watch-guard. It was a letter one would expect from a thin-faced man with grey hair, straight black eyebrows, cold, suspicious eyes that queries your bona fides through gold-rimmed glasses, and lips a trifle thin and tightly pressed.
It ran:
"Dear Sir,—I have your letter (undated) addressed from the Sporting Club of Melbourne, and I note its contents. I am gratified to learn that your poor father had so high an opinion of me, and I am sure no man held him in greater esteem than myself. I shall be glad to see you if you will write making an appointment, but I am a very busy man.
Unfortunately, you are not without fame—or perhaps I should say—notoriety. The halfpenny press, in its anxiety to disseminate rather the sensational than the useful, has made no secret of your transactions on the Australian turf. Such head-lines as 'Pallard the Punter wins another fortune', or 'Pallard the Punter's sensational bet', neither edify nor please me. Frankly, they fill me with a sense of humiliation and shame that one, who is my kinsman, should have so far descended the slippery path of Sin that ends in Ruin and Despair, and that one so gifted with Fortune should embark upon a gambler's career. Of all forms of gambling perhaps horse-racing is, to my mind, the most abhorrent. That so beautiful a creature as the horse—the friend of man—should be debased so that he becomes the enemy of man is at once pitiable and, I speak in all solemnity, degrading.
I shall, as I say, be prepared to meet you, but I regret that I am unable to offer you the hospitality of a home which shelters my son, untouched by the world, and my daughter who has inherited all her father's instinctive distaste for those forms of amusement which appeal to you.
Yours very faithfully,
Peter Callander."
I wonder what the chances are of me ever getting every comma in place. Mr. Callander then gives this letter to his clerk telling him to post it with a "courteous nod of his head." I suppose we are to be impressed about that nod because this comes next:
That was a trait in which he took the greatest pride. He was an intensely courteous man to his dependents. He invariably raised his hat to the salutation of the porter who guarded the entrance of Callander & Callander's. The meanest office-boy that ever stole stamps was sure of a kindly nod and a friendly pat on the head. He addressed his junior clerks as 'Sir', and carried with him that air of genial benevolence which so admirably suits white hair and plaid trousers.
Yes, he was courteous, but.....
It is true that he paid his clerks at a poorer rate and worked them longer hours than any other employer of his standing in the City of London. It is true that he visited the office-boy, when his peculations were discovered, with the utmost rigour of the law, and was adamantine to the weeping mother and pleading father. It is equally true that he was always setting mean traps to test the honesty of the juniors to whom he said 'Sir'; but in all things he was courteous.
You should be able to get a picture of Peter Callander in your mind by now, let's meet the children:
Horace Callander was a slight young man of middle height, with a full, effeminate chin, large eyes, well shaded with long lashes, a well-proportioned face, and a trim figure. He had as trim a moustache, so trim, in fact, that it had the appearance of having been painted on his face by Michael Angelo—this is the view of one who did not love Horace Callander.
Symmetrical is the word that described his appearance, deferential his attitude. His voice was musical and well-pitched, being neither too loud nor too soft.
The girl who entered the room behind him—it would have struck the observer as strange that this perfect young gentleman did not open the door for her and allow her to enter before him—was made on different lines.
She was fair and tall, taller than her brother. Her figure was slim, and she moved with the freedom of one who loved the field and the road. Her head was well set on a pair of graceful shoulders and crowned with magnificent hair of that hue which halts midway between gold and russet-brown. Two big grey eyes set in a face of delicate colour; a pair of generous lips and a straight little nose, she resembled her brother only in respect to the quality of her voice.
"Well, my dear?" said Mr Callander. It was his son he addressed in such tones of affectionate pride. "So you've been to fetch this sister of yours? And how is Gladys, eh?"
She bent down to kiss his cheek, and he submitted to the indignity with great resignation. It was his practice to address her always in the third person. It was a practice which had began in banter and ended by becoming a custom.
None of the three wanted a visit from this cousin, after all, he gets himself talked about, and they don't want him getting them talked about. Horace has brought his father this newspaper article:
"Mr Brian Pallard, who has made turf history in Australia, has earned distinction in other branches of sport; he won the middle-weight at the Public Schools Competitions-Amateur light-weight; he is reported to be enormously wealthy. He is a near relative of Mr P. Callander, of the well-known City firm of agents."
Of course they are all shocked and appalled by this, after all they are the renowned Callander family. There is no Mrs. Callander, she died when Gladys was a baby, we're told that Gladys often wondered whether her mother had worried herself to death trying to understand her husband, or whether she understood him too well and accepted oblivion cheerfully. Not a very nice thing to think of your own father, is it? But now Mr. Callander arrives home telling them he has made it perfectly clear he wants nothing to do with Brian Pallard. Shortly after this Gladys walks to the train station to welcome a visitor coming to see her brother. We're told this about the visitor:
He was a man a little above medium height, straight shoulders, and erect. There was nothing of the artist in his appearance, though the face was intellectual and the humorous blue eyes, no less than the well-shaped, sensitive lips, told of imagination. He was clean-shaven, and might as well have been an actor, a barrister, or a doctor as an artist.
Gladys finds him fresh and delightful, and by the time they get to the house they are chatting as if they had known one another all their lives. When Gladys and her guest arrive home she finds the man she thought was the visitor is someone else:
Horace and his father were playing croquet, and an interested spectator was a stern young man with a straggling beard. A wild thought struck Gladys for an instant that possibly this was the dreadful cousin, but a second glance reassured her.
The stranger was much too respectable.
Horace looked up as she crossed the lawn.
"Hello, Gladys," he said with a smile, "had your journey for nothing, eh? Mr Willock came by the fast train to Sevenoaks and drove out. Permit —"
He was introducing the stern stranger when he saw the look of anguished embarrassment on his sister's face.
Simultaneously Callander senior demanded in his most benevolent tone:
"And who is Gladys's friend?"
She looked round at the young man, who, hat in hand, stood awaiting introduction to the family circle.
He, at any rate, was neither embarrassed nor abashed, for he walked forward with a smile and grasped the outstretched hand of Mr Callander.
"I really believe you don't remember me, Uncle Peter," he said reproachfully. "I am Brian Pallard, and I must say it was immensely decent of you to send my cousin to meet me."
Obviously unwelcome because of his dubious way of life and his making his considerable fortune on the races. Now that he has arrived, Pallard proves charming and witty, knowing much about each and every one of them and complimenting them on their achievements, making Mr. Callander think that perhaps there is something in him after all. And Gladys is definitely drawn to him, but there is Lord Pinlow....
His lordship was a big young man, broad-shouldered and stout, and from the crown of his well-brushed head to the tip of his patent-leather shoes he was a picture of a perfectly dressed man-about-town. Lord Pinlow's career had been a varied one. Starting life with an estate mortgaged to its utmost capacity, he had, by sheer perseverance and a magnetic personality, more than doubled its indebtedness. His imperial 'I O U's' were held in every city of the Empire; his all-red route from London to Hong Kong, from Brisbane to Victoria, B. C., was studded with promises to pay which had never been fulfilled.
But he had avoided bankruptcy, and he knew people. Moreover, he had a house in the neighbourhood and was useful to Mr Callander, for even a discredited peer has more influence than the bourgeoisie of unimpeachable integrity.
Gladys doesn't like Lord Pinlow, of course, it's a mystery novel, the girl never likes the rich (almost) Lord. He however, is very interested in her. It seems that Brian and Pinlow know each other and have known each other for some time. They don't shake hands upon seeing each other which goes to show just how the relationship between them is, and almost immediately Pinlow begins to talk about horse racing though Mr. Callander has forbidden that talk in his house. Brian attempts to change the subject, but Pinlow won't stop, saying no honest man can make racing pay, and fools make money by sheer luck, among other things. Finally Mr. Callander throws Brian out of the house, why he doesn't throw Pinlow out of the house is because he needs his money, which he doesn't have but Mr. Callander doesn't know that.
And so Brian leaves the Callander and takes over the palatial private training establishment of the late Mr Louis Brenzer at Wickham, and does all kinds of horse stuff. Now the racing of horses things that go on I don't always understand, and since I see no reason I would ever need to understand it I didn't bother to look it up. But things like this meant nothing to me:
With a strange jockey up, and no indication that the horse was fancied, Reinhardt was installed a good favourite, opening at 5 to 2, and hardening to 11 to 8. The only horse to be backed against him was Mr Telby's Curb Fel, 10 to 2 bar two being freely offered. The horses were on their way to the post when a move was made in favour of Timberline, all the 100 to 8's and 10's being absorbed for small money. Big sums went on at 100 to 12, and not satisfied with this, one commissioner took 1,000 to 140 twice. Smoothly as the commission was worked, there was a hitch, for money came tumbling in from the small rings, and the price shortened to 5 to 1 and to 7 to 2, in the shortest space of time. Then, when it seemed that the commissioners had had enough, and Timberline weakened to 4 to 1, there came another determined onslaught on the rings. Any price offered was taken, and at the death it was impossible to get a quotation, though one of the prominent bookmakers took 600 to 400 twice. The price returned was 5 to 4 on, but at flagfall it was impossible to trade at that price.
Brief thoughts like how 5 to 1 could shorten to 7 to 2 which seemed to me like it would lengthen, and how 600 to 400 got in this at all didn't last long. Math never does, and I didn't need to know it for the story, at least I hope I didn't, because if I did I'm missing something. Oh, Pallard bought in the winner for 1,200 guineas. I wonder if that's good. Gladys didn't seem to understand it either for she decided to ask one of the servants what it all meant and he was kind enough to give us this description:
"Oh, yes, miss," responded Charles, confidently. "It means, miss, that this here gentleman, Mr Pallard, slipped a horse in an overnight seller, an' he waited till the ring found something hot, then he dropped in his commissioners to back it. You see, miss, they are in all the rings! An' the tick-tack men got the wheeze and sent it back to Tatts, and then Mr Pallard hung on for the horse to go out a bit; then he popped in again and laid the stuff on. Why, it's as plain as print!" he added proudly.
Yes, I'm sure that makes the entire thing plain. To someone somewhere else, just not here. Much of the book from here goes round and round horse racing, in the ring and out of the ring, but there are things going on behind the racing, Pinlow wants to marry Gladys, Mr. Callander wants Pinlow to marry Gladys, Horace wants Pinlow to marry Gladys, Brian certainly doesn't want Pinlow to marry Gladys, and Gladys tells her father that she would no more marry Lord Pinlow than she would marry the valet. When he insists she tells him she would not marry Lord Pinlow to save her life. You wouldn't have to know Pinlow long to agree with her.
Now, I liked this book, I liked it a lot, but there is no mystery to it. You should be able to tell already just from reading this what is going to happen and I only talked about the first few chapters. There isn't just winning money, but quite a bit of losing money, people who can't afford to lose money, there is attempts to injure horses in all sorts of ways, and the saving of horses in all sorts of ways. There is blackmail, and kidnapping, and murder, all the things a good mystery should have. I've decided I don't like horse racing though, because of this:
Up went the jockey's whip on the grey, once, twice, it came down, and then the lad sat down to ride with his hands. Inch by inch the horse's great stride brought him to the leaders. The whips were going now on the others.
I don't want them to whip the horses, some of the people I wouldn't be against, but not the horses. Happy reading.
We begin our story with two letters:
Brian Pallard wrote to his uncle:
"Dear Uncle Peter,—Though I have never seen you, I have heard my father speak so highly of your many qualities that I am looking forward to seeing you and my cousins, on my visit to England. As you know, I was born in Kent, though everybody here regards me as Australian bred. Is that a tribute to my temporary sojourn at Oxford, or is it not?
Anyway, I will let you know just when I arrive. I am sending this to your office, because I do not know your address. I have been having a great time in Melbourne.—Yours ever,
Brian P."
Mr. Peter Callander wrote back.
It was a letter carefully considered, and as carefully worded; every comma was in its place, every 't' was crossed. It was the type of letter you might suppose that a conservative Englishman doing a conservative business would write.
It was a letter harmonizing with his correct frock-coat of conservative cut, his plain trousers, his cloth spats and his heavy watch-guard. It was a letter one would expect from a thin-faced man with grey hair, straight black eyebrows, cold, suspicious eyes that queries your bona fides through gold-rimmed glasses, and lips a trifle thin and tightly pressed.
It ran:
"Dear Sir,—I have your letter (undated) addressed from the Sporting Club of Melbourne, and I note its contents. I am gratified to learn that your poor father had so high an opinion of me, and I am sure no man held him in greater esteem than myself. I shall be glad to see you if you will write making an appointment, but I am a very busy man.
Unfortunately, you are not without fame—or perhaps I should say—notoriety. The halfpenny press, in its anxiety to disseminate rather the sensational than the useful, has made no secret of your transactions on the Australian turf. Such head-lines as 'Pallard the Punter wins another fortune', or 'Pallard the Punter's sensational bet', neither edify nor please me. Frankly, they fill me with a sense of humiliation and shame that one, who is my kinsman, should have so far descended the slippery path of Sin that ends in Ruin and Despair, and that one so gifted with Fortune should embark upon a gambler's career. Of all forms of gambling perhaps horse-racing is, to my mind, the most abhorrent. That so beautiful a creature as the horse—the friend of man—should be debased so that he becomes the enemy of man is at once pitiable and, I speak in all solemnity, degrading.
I shall, as I say, be prepared to meet you, but I regret that I am unable to offer you the hospitality of a home which shelters my son, untouched by the world, and my daughter who has inherited all her father's instinctive distaste for those forms of amusement which appeal to you.
Yours very faithfully,
Peter Callander."
I wonder what the chances are of me ever getting every comma in place. Mr. Callander then gives this letter to his clerk telling him to post it with a "courteous nod of his head." I suppose we are to be impressed about that nod because this comes next:
That was a trait in which he took the greatest pride. He was an intensely courteous man to his dependents. He invariably raised his hat to the salutation of the porter who guarded the entrance of Callander & Callander's. The meanest office-boy that ever stole stamps was sure of a kindly nod and a friendly pat on the head. He addressed his junior clerks as 'Sir', and carried with him that air of genial benevolence which so admirably suits white hair and plaid trousers.
Yes, he was courteous, but.....
It is true that he paid his clerks at a poorer rate and worked them longer hours than any other employer of his standing in the City of London. It is true that he visited the office-boy, when his peculations were discovered, with the utmost rigour of the law, and was adamantine to the weeping mother and pleading father. It is equally true that he was always setting mean traps to test the honesty of the juniors to whom he said 'Sir'; but in all things he was courteous.
You should be able to get a picture of Peter Callander in your mind by now, let's meet the children:
Horace Callander was a slight young man of middle height, with a full, effeminate chin, large eyes, well shaded with long lashes, a well-proportioned face, and a trim figure. He had as trim a moustache, so trim, in fact, that it had the appearance of having been painted on his face by Michael Angelo—this is the view of one who did not love Horace Callander.
Symmetrical is the word that described his appearance, deferential his attitude. His voice was musical and well-pitched, being neither too loud nor too soft.
The girl who entered the room behind him—it would have struck the observer as strange that this perfect young gentleman did not open the door for her and allow her to enter before him—was made on different lines.
She was fair and tall, taller than her brother. Her figure was slim, and she moved with the freedom of one who loved the field and the road. Her head was well set on a pair of graceful shoulders and crowned with magnificent hair of that hue which halts midway between gold and russet-brown. Two big grey eyes set in a face of delicate colour; a pair of generous lips and a straight little nose, she resembled her brother only in respect to the quality of her voice.
"Well, my dear?" said Mr Callander. It was his son he addressed in such tones of affectionate pride. "So you've been to fetch this sister of yours? And how is Gladys, eh?"
She bent down to kiss his cheek, and he submitted to the indignity with great resignation. It was his practice to address her always in the third person. It was a practice which had began in banter and ended by becoming a custom.
None of the three wanted a visit from this cousin, after all, he gets himself talked about, and they don't want him getting them talked about. Horace has brought his father this newspaper article:
"Mr Brian Pallard, who has made turf history in Australia, has earned distinction in other branches of sport; he won the middle-weight at the Public Schools Competitions-Amateur light-weight; he is reported to be enormously wealthy. He is a near relative of Mr P. Callander, of the well-known City firm of agents."
Of course they are all shocked and appalled by this, after all they are the renowned Callander family. There is no Mrs. Callander, she died when Gladys was a baby, we're told that Gladys often wondered whether her mother had worried herself to death trying to understand her husband, or whether she understood him too well and accepted oblivion cheerfully. Not a very nice thing to think of your own father, is it? But now Mr. Callander arrives home telling them he has made it perfectly clear he wants nothing to do with Brian Pallard. Shortly after this Gladys walks to the train station to welcome a visitor coming to see her brother. We're told this about the visitor:
He was a man a little above medium height, straight shoulders, and erect. There was nothing of the artist in his appearance, though the face was intellectual and the humorous blue eyes, no less than the well-shaped, sensitive lips, told of imagination. He was clean-shaven, and might as well have been an actor, a barrister, or a doctor as an artist.
Gladys finds him fresh and delightful, and by the time they get to the house they are chatting as if they had known one another all their lives. When Gladys and her guest arrive home she finds the man she thought was the visitor is someone else:
Horace and his father were playing croquet, and an interested spectator was a stern young man with a straggling beard. A wild thought struck Gladys for an instant that possibly this was the dreadful cousin, but a second glance reassured her.
The stranger was much too respectable.
Horace looked up as she crossed the lawn.
"Hello, Gladys," he said with a smile, "had your journey for nothing, eh? Mr Willock came by the fast train to Sevenoaks and drove out. Permit —"
He was introducing the stern stranger when he saw the look of anguished embarrassment on his sister's face.
Simultaneously Callander senior demanded in his most benevolent tone:
"And who is Gladys's friend?"
She looked round at the young man, who, hat in hand, stood awaiting introduction to the family circle.
He, at any rate, was neither embarrassed nor abashed, for he walked forward with a smile and grasped the outstretched hand of Mr Callander.
"I really believe you don't remember me, Uncle Peter," he said reproachfully. "I am Brian Pallard, and I must say it was immensely decent of you to send my cousin to meet me."
Obviously unwelcome because of his dubious way of life and his making his considerable fortune on the races. Now that he has arrived, Pallard proves charming and witty, knowing much about each and every one of them and complimenting them on their achievements, making Mr. Callander think that perhaps there is something in him after all. And Gladys is definitely drawn to him, but there is Lord Pinlow....
His lordship was a big young man, broad-shouldered and stout, and from the crown of his well-brushed head to the tip of his patent-leather shoes he was a picture of a perfectly dressed man-about-town. Lord Pinlow's career had been a varied one. Starting life with an estate mortgaged to its utmost capacity, he had, by sheer perseverance and a magnetic personality, more than doubled its indebtedness. His imperial 'I O U's' were held in every city of the Empire; his all-red route from London to Hong Kong, from Brisbane to Victoria, B. C., was studded with promises to pay which had never been fulfilled.
But he had avoided bankruptcy, and he knew people. Moreover, he had a house in the neighbourhood and was useful to Mr Callander, for even a discredited peer has more influence than the bourgeoisie of unimpeachable integrity.
Gladys doesn't like Lord Pinlow, of course, it's a mystery novel, the girl never likes the rich (almost) Lord. He however, is very interested in her. It seems that Brian and Pinlow know each other and have known each other for some time. They don't shake hands upon seeing each other which goes to show just how the relationship between them is, and almost immediately Pinlow begins to talk about horse racing though Mr. Callander has forbidden that talk in his house. Brian attempts to change the subject, but Pinlow won't stop, saying no honest man can make racing pay, and fools make money by sheer luck, among other things. Finally Mr. Callander throws Brian out of the house, why he doesn't throw Pinlow out of the house is because he needs his money, which he doesn't have but Mr. Callander doesn't know that.
And so Brian leaves the Callander and takes over the palatial private training establishment of the late Mr Louis Brenzer at Wickham, and does all kinds of horse stuff. Now the racing of horses things that go on I don't always understand, and since I see no reason I would ever need to understand it I didn't bother to look it up. But things like this meant nothing to me:
With a strange jockey up, and no indication that the horse was fancied, Reinhardt was installed a good favourite, opening at 5 to 2, and hardening to 11 to 8. The only horse to be backed against him was Mr Telby's Curb Fel, 10 to 2 bar two being freely offered. The horses were on their way to the post when a move was made in favour of Timberline, all the 100 to 8's and 10's being absorbed for small money. Big sums went on at 100 to 12, and not satisfied with this, one commissioner took 1,000 to 140 twice. Smoothly as the commission was worked, there was a hitch, for money came tumbling in from the small rings, and the price shortened to 5 to 1 and to 7 to 2, in the shortest space of time. Then, when it seemed that the commissioners had had enough, and Timberline weakened to 4 to 1, there came another determined onslaught on the rings. Any price offered was taken, and at the death it was impossible to get a quotation, though one of the prominent bookmakers took 600 to 400 twice. The price returned was 5 to 4 on, but at flagfall it was impossible to trade at that price.
Brief thoughts like how 5 to 1 could shorten to 7 to 2 which seemed to me like it would lengthen, and how 600 to 400 got in this at all didn't last long. Math never does, and I didn't need to know it for the story, at least I hope I didn't, because if I did I'm missing something. Oh, Pallard bought in the winner for 1,200 guineas. I wonder if that's good. Gladys didn't seem to understand it either for she decided to ask one of the servants what it all meant and he was kind enough to give us this description:
"Oh, yes, miss," responded Charles, confidently. "It means, miss, that this here gentleman, Mr Pallard, slipped a horse in an overnight seller, an' he waited till the ring found something hot, then he dropped in his commissioners to back it. You see, miss, they are in all the rings! An' the tick-tack men got the wheeze and sent it back to Tatts, and then Mr Pallard hung on for the horse to go out a bit; then he popped in again and laid the stuff on. Why, it's as plain as print!" he added proudly.
Yes, I'm sure that makes the entire thing plain. To someone somewhere else, just not here. Much of the book from here goes round and round horse racing, in the ring and out of the ring, but there are things going on behind the racing, Pinlow wants to marry Gladys, Mr. Callander wants Pinlow to marry Gladys, Horace wants Pinlow to marry Gladys, Brian certainly doesn't want Pinlow to marry Gladys, and Gladys tells her father that she would no more marry Lord Pinlow than she would marry the valet. When he insists she tells him she would not marry Lord Pinlow to save her life. You wouldn't have to know Pinlow long to agree with her.
Now, I liked this book, I liked it a lot, but there is no mystery to it. You should be able to tell already just from reading this what is going to happen and I only talked about the first few chapters. There isn't just winning money, but quite a bit of losing money, people who can't afford to lose money, there is attempts to injure horses in all sorts of ways, and the saving of horses in all sorts of ways. There is blackmail, and kidnapping, and murder, all the things a good mystery should have. I've decided I don't like horse racing though, because of this:
Up went the jockey's whip on the grey, once, twice, it came down, and then the lad sat down to ride with his hands. Inch by inch the horse's great stride brought him to the leaders. The whips were going now on the others.
I don't want them to whip the horses, some of the people I wouldn't be against, but not the horses. Happy reading.
Read
June 6, 2022An almost Wodehousian effort from Edgar Wallace. There's a very cheerful if slightly dodgy racing hero and a fun romance, along with a well sketched thriller element and a convincing racing background (as it should be considering how much he blew on the gee-gees). One of his better efforts.
May 2, 2012
Beating Dick Francis to the the winning post by about 50 years, Wallace here has written an excellent novel about dodgy dealings on the stock market and about one of his favourite subjects, that he lost a lot of money at, horse racing.
July 19, 2020
Not bad but so cluttered with details about racing, betting, and stock investment that I'd often lose track of the story.
March 14, 2019
One of the prolific author's many crime novels, Edgar Wallace's Grey Timothy (a.k.a. Pallard the Punter) follows the adventures of professional horse racer Brian Pallard as he ingratiates himself into the family of his stuffy businessman uncle Peter Callander (as well as into the heart of his second cousin Gladys) while sparring with his crooked rival Lord Pinlow.
The story is straightforward, with Pallard slowly winning over the Callanders whose first impression of him is that of a degenerate gambler, slowly charming Gladys into courtship, and outsmarting Pinlow at one scheme after another by either being one step ahead of his schemes or being fortunately lucky at the right moment. The pacing is good, the twists and reveals are mostly plausible, and the characters are even nuanced enough for the reader to care about what happens. There's plenty of technical racetrack talk, and numerous asides exploring the hypocrisy of businessmen involved in market speculation (a.k.a. gambling) looking down their noses at other forms of gambling and competition as sinful and degenerate.
I'm not as much of a fan of Wallace's science fiction or "Africa Adventure" novels, but his crime novel output for the time period is solid and entertaining, and Pallard the Punter is no exception.
The story is straightforward, with Pallard slowly winning over the Callanders whose first impression of him is that of a degenerate gambler, slowly charming Gladys into courtship, and outsmarting Pinlow at one scheme after another by either being one step ahead of his schemes or being fortunately lucky at the right moment. The pacing is good, the twists and reveals are mostly plausible, and the characters are even nuanced enough for the reader to care about what happens. There's plenty of technical racetrack talk, and numerous asides exploring the hypocrisy of businessmen involved in market speculation (a.k.a. gambling) looking down their noses at other forms of gambling and competition as sinful and degenerate.
I'm not as much of a fan of Wallace's science fiction or "Africa Adventure" novels, but his crime novel output for the time period is solid and entertaining, and Pallard the Punter is no exception.
July 12, 2022
Entertaining listening 🎧
Another will written British romance family relationship short story by Edgar Wallace about a young man coming to England from Austraila. His is rejected by family but persist by saving the family from bankruptcy and gets the love of his life. I would recommend this novella to readers of British mysteries. Enjoy the adventure of reading all kind of differnet books. 2022
Another will written British romance family relationship short story by Edgar Wallace about a young man coming to England from Austraila. His is rejected by family but persist by saving the family from bankruptcy and gets the love of his life. I would recommend this novella to readers of British mysteries. Enjoy the adventure of reading all kind of differnet books. 2022
October 28, 2016
(English version of review follows below)
Die renommierte Familie Callander bekommt höchst unwillkommenen Besuch von ihrem australischen Verwandten, dem Neffen Brian Pallard von Familienoberhaupt Peter Callander. Unwillkommen, weil Pallard einen eher zweifelhaften Lebenswandel pflegt und sein Vermögen mit Pferdewetten gemacht. Bei Ankunft erweist sich Pallard als charmant und gewitzt, so dass sich Tochter Gladys gleich in ihn verguckt, er hat aber auch Rivalen, die vor schlimmen Taten nicht zurück schrecken und auch schon mal ein Pferd mit Tse Tse Fliegen umbrignen um ein Rennen zu manipulieren.
Kurzweilige und vergnügliche Mischung aus Gesellschaftskomödie, Melodram und leichtgewichtigem Kriminalroman. Sicherlich auf keinerlei Weise irgendwie bedeutend, aber nett zu lesen und noch heute so unterhaltsam, dass man die Lektüre empfehlen kann.
Der Roman wurde gleich 1919 von J.L.V. Leigh mit Jack Leigh, Heather Thatcher und Lionel d'Aragon verfilmt, der Film gilt aber leider als verschollen.
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The renowned family Callander receives a very unwelcome visit from their Australian relative, nephew Brian Pallard of family patriarch Peter Callander. Unwelcome because Pallard cultivates a rather dubious way of life and made his considerable fortune on the races. Upon arrival, Pallard proves charming and witty, so that daughter Gladys immediately gets a crush on him, but he also has rivals who do not shy away from bad deed like killing a horse with tse tse flies to manipulate a horse-race…
Entertaining mix of social comedy, melodrama and lightweight detective novel. Surely in no way of any literary importance, but still so nice to read that it can be still recommended.
Made pretty quickly into a movie in 1919 by J.L.V. Leigh, starring Jack Leigh, Heather Thatcher andd Lionel d'Aragon, this film seems to be lost, alas.
Die renommierte Familie Callander bekommt höchst unwillkommenen Besuch von ihrem australischen Verwandten, dem Neffen Brian Pallard von Familienoberhaupt Peter Callander. Unwillkommen, weil Pallard einen eher zweifelhaften Lebenswandel pflegt und sein Vermögen mit Pferdewetten gemacht. Bei Ankunft erweist sich Pallard als charmant und gewitzt, so dass sich Tochter Gladys gleich in ihn verguckt, er hat aber auch Rivalen, die vor schlimmen Taten nicht zurück schrecken und auch schon mal ein Pferd mit Tse Tse Fliegen umbrignen um ein Rennen zu manipulieren.
Kurzweilige und vergnügliche Mischung aus Gesellschaftskomödie, Melodram und leichtgewichtigem Kriminalroman. Sicherlich auf keinerlei Weise irgendwie bedeutend, aber nett zu lesen und noch heute so unterhaltsam, dass man die Lektüre empfehlen kann.
Der Roman wurde gleich 1919 von J.L.V. Leigh mit Jack Leigh, Heather Thatcher und Lionel d'Aragon verfilmt, der Film gilt aber leider als verschollen.
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The renowned family Callander receives a very unwelcome visit from their Australian relative, nephew Brian Pallard of family patriarch Peter Callander. Unwelcome because Pallard cultivates a rather dubious way of life and made his considerable fortune on the races. Upon arrival, Pallard proves charming and witty, so that daughter Gladys immediately gets a crush on him, but he also has rivals who do not shy away from bad deed like killing a horse with tse tse flies to manipulate a horse-race…
Entertaining mix of social comedy, melodrama and lightweight detective novel. Surely in no way of any literary importance, but still so nice to read that it can be still recommended.
Made pretty quickly into a movie in 1919 by J.L.V. Leigh, starring Jack Leigh, Heather Thatcher andd Lionel d'Aragon, this film seems to be lost, alas.
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