CHAPTER XXV
HE LOOKED AT HIS TICKET
"That was a good tip; we all backed it," said Glen as Nicholl came up to them.
"He won easily," said the jockey smiling.
"Your luck's in," remarked Bill.
"I hope it will continue in the Cup," answered the jockey.
Barellan was being put to rights in the corner of the paddock and they went to see him.
Bellshaw was not there, so Hadwin had an opportunity of speaking to them. He assured Glen the horse would win if he had a good run in the race, which he was almost sure to have with such a jockey as Luke Nicholl in the saddle.
Barellan looked fresh and well. His coat shone like satin. He was trained to the hour, but the suspicious-looking bandages, and one hoof bound up with copper wire, caused many people to pass him by in their search for the winner.
Luke Nicholl, wearing Bellshaw's sky blue jacket and red cap, was ready to mount when the time came. He felt confident. Hadwin had made an impression on him, inspired him with some of his enthusiasm. Nicholl was well off, Hadwin was not; the victory of Barellan meant the difference between debt and independence. The trainer was not a gambler. He seldom had more than five or ten pounds on, but he could not resist backing Barellan, at the long prices offered, when he was lame. He had three thousand to ninety about the horse, and backed him to win another thousand that morning. Glen had laid him five hundred out of the sweep money.
Perhaps Glen Leigh was one of the most anxious men on the course, but there was no sign that he was unduly excited. He laughed and joked as usual and appeared quite calm outwardly.
The chance of winning a fortune of nearly twenty-five thousand pounds for the investment of a sovereign does not come to many men in a lifetime. This was what Glen stood to win, and he conjured up his future prospects if it came off. He thought of Mrs. Prevost and Clara; the former he knew loved him; at least he was very much mistaken if she did not, and he knew he loved her. If Barellan won he would go to her and ask her to be his wife, and she would not refuse. He cared nothing about her connection with Bellshaw. He would never ask her about it. He knew the man, and pitied any woman who got into his clutches. As he stood looking at Barellan he thought what the horse's victory meant to him, and naturally he became more anxious as the time of the race drew near. He saw Bellshaw coming and would have avoided him had it been possible.
The squatter scowled at him, then asked, "Have you changed your mind? Will you give me a cent out of the sweep?"
"No," replied Glen as he walked away.
Bellshaw sent a curse after him, then turned to the jockey.
"If you can't win it doesn't matter about riding him out for a place," he said. "There's no sweep money attached to it."
Nicholl made no reply.
"Do you hear what I say?" snapped Bellshaw.
"I heard; I shall have to ride him out."
"You'll do as I tell you."
"I shall ride Barellan out," said Nicholl firmly.
"Against my orders?"
"If those are your orders, yes. I am not going to run any risks."
"What risk would you run?"
"I might be called up before the stewards to explain, and I'm not going to risk that for you or anyone else."
"You hear what he says," Bellshaw said to the trainer.
"He'll have to ride him out. There's no help for it. Besides, there's big money for the places," answered Hadwin.
"I don't want place money if he can't win. I want to keep that fellow Leigh from winning if Barellan can't come in first," said Bellshaw.
"I thought so," said Nicholl.
Bellshaw did not stay to see his horse leave the paddock. He went back into the ring. He was in a vile temper, which his trainer's confidence in Barellan did not soothe. Leigh had got the better of him. He knew it was no empty threat when Glen said he would be put on his trial for manslaughter if evidence were given incriminating him. He hated Glen Leigh. His animosity was so great he would have scratched Barellan had he dared. He intended paying him out. The best way to wound him would be through Mrs. Prevost. He cared nothing for her sufferings, even after all she had been to him. He was a man without feelings.
He was not quite sure whether Leigh would keep his promise if Barellan won. There was Lin Soo. What did Leigh know about him? The paper found under his bedroom door at Mintaro had warned him, and Leigh mentioned it again in the hotel. He must see Lin Soo on his return to Sydney, but first of all he would go to Mrs. Prevost's again and inform her he had enlightened Glen Leigh as to her past life, would gloat over her distress, make fun of her, then offer to be on friendly terms with her again. He had no doubt she would accept.
He stood alone in the ring listening to the calling of the odds. Roland was a firm favourite. Isaac, Painter, Out Back, Adelaide, The Gong, Rosehill, Canterbury, Crocker, Thane, The Rival, Jack, and Mackay, were all well backed, some at long odds, and rank outsiders at a hundred to one each.
The name of Barellan was seldom called by the bookmakers. Bellshaw wondered why? Had they laid his horse heavily before he met with his accident?
He went to Gerard and asked the price of his horse.
"Full against him," replied Nick.
"You mean you won't lay him," said Bellshaw.
"Take it as you like."
"Do you expect him to run well?" asked Bellshaw.
"I expect him to win," answered the bookmaker. "I hope he does for Leigh's sake."
Bellshaw made some remark about Leigh being a bad lot.
"He's a straight goer. It's a pity there are not more like him," said Nick.
"Perhaps it is. Even if he wins the sweep he'll soon lose it. Probably you'll get most of it, or some of your fraternity," retorted Bellshaw.
"You don't know the man. If he wins he'll stick to it, take my word for it," said Nick.
Barellan's price was a hundred to eight, and no longer odds were obtainable about him. This was not tempting enough for Bellshaw, so he made no further investment.
Jack was knocked out to a hundred to one for some reason or other. His trainer did not understand it as he thought the horse had a fair outside chance.
Glen Leigh was missing. Bill and Jim could not find him.
"He's best alone until after the race," said Bill. "He must feel a bit queer about it; I should."
"So should I," agreed Jim. "Fancy standing to win all those thousands for a sovereign; it makes a fellow's mouth water."
"He'll do something for you if he wins the first prize," said Bill.
"He's not mentioned it."
"No, it's not his way, but he will, depend upon it; I shouldn't wonder if he gives you his share in the show."
Jim thought of Clara and what he would do if such a stroke of luck came his way. Glen Leigh had gone on to the top of the stand close to the press-box, where he would have a good view of the race. He wished to be alone. His feelings almost overcame him. He saw Jerry and Tom Roslyn in front of the press-box, and was glad they had not noticed him.
There was a dull roaring sound all over the course, the voices of thousands of people talking before the race, mingled with the shouts of the bookmakers. A sea of faces met Glen's gaze as he looked across the course. Far away, on the other side of the canal, people were camped on the slopes, waiting for the big field to come out. At the back of him, on the hill, there was a dense crowd reaching down to the top of the stand; he turned round and looked at the surging mass. To his right, below, was the ring, and paddock; he saw a mass of heads on Tattersalls' stand, and just caught a glimpse of a colour or two in the paddock. On the lawn people were still strolling about in groups. The race, most of it, could be seen from the terrace and the slopes. Presently, when the horses came round the bend for home there would be a rush to get on the rails. Still further to the left was another stand, on which there was plenty of room. Late lunchers were still under the vines, but were now making a move towards the terrace and stands. A long streak of bright green, the course, stretched out between the crowds. A solitary horseman cantered down. It was the starter going to the post; then the clerk of the course came along, on an old chaser, and went after him. Already there were one or two in the stewards' stand. Near the weighing room diminutive men were going about; they were the jockeys weighed out for the race. It was an animated glittering scene; many-hued costumes, the brightest of colours, the daintiest of designs, artistic creations, the labour of clever women and clever men, and hats and sunshades almost too dazzling to feast the eyes upon, as the glorious sun poured his rays down from the cloudless sky. It was an ideal day. A faint breeze, tinged with sea air from the bay far away, cooled hot cheeks, and blew delicately through thin blouses and skirts. Men moved about in all sorts of headgear; but there were no regulation top-hats, although in the Governor's Box "a bit of Ascot" was seen. It was Glen Leigh's first Melbourne Cup, and the sight at Flemington entranced him, threw a glamour over him, and he looked at it all and fancied himself alone, even in the vast crowd. And he had drawn Barellan in the big sweep. Would the horse win? Would No. 33444 be the successful ticket? He had it in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at it, thinking how wonderful it was that if Barellan won he could cash it for nearly twenty-five thousand pounds.
CHAPTER XXVI
BARELLAN FALLS BACK
Glen's thoughts wandered. The heat and excitement made him drowsy. For a few minutes he dozed, and as he did so his mind went back to the days when he was a keeper of the fence, on the border line between New South Wales and Queensland. Surrounded by thousands on Flemington course he slumbered peacefully, as men will when overcome with some powerful feeling, that acts like a drug, and for a few minutes there is oblivion.
His thoughts wandered far away. He was back once more on the glittering wire fence, with Ping, and Spotty, waiting there in the blazing heat for his mate to meet him and compare notes. There had been no rain for months; everything was parched, and dried up. He saw thousands of dead rabbits, and sheep. The stench seemed to be in his nostrils. The scene changed. He was looking in at his hut and saw the woman on the bed. In a few seconds he went through the struggle for a life again, the ride to Boonara, the tussle for brandy with Bill Bigs, Jim's arrival, and keeping watch, Spotty's attack; then the convalescence and the journey to Sydney. His meeting with Mrs. Prevost, Bellshaw at Mintaro, the search and capture of buckjumpers, Lin Soo, The Savage, the show, were all jumbled up together when he came out of his temporary swoon with a start, rubbed his eyes, and stared round him at the bustling scene, hardly daring to believe he was not back in reality on the fence. He gave a sigh of relief, and was wide awake again. He could not have been asleep for more than five minutes, and he had gone through the experiences of half a lifetime. It was strange. He had not quite shaken it off when the horses came out of the paddock on to the track, and the sight caused the past to vanish.
All eyes were turned on them as they cantered down the course to the starting post. There were thirty-one runners; it was a big field, and half of them were considered to have chances.
Jack, knocked out to a hundred to one, was first out, his jockey wearing a green jacket, yellow belt and cap; then came half a dozen more in a cluster. Isaac, the Derby winner, passed, going in great style. A tremendous cheer greeted Roland, the favourite. His owner's black jacket, white sleeves, and red cap were popular; the colours were always out to win. Painter, Plume, and Out Back followed, then Glen saw the sky-blue jacket and red cap, and his heart beat rapidly. Barellan went slowly at first, then burst into a gallop, pulling hard, reaching for his head, but Nicholl would not let him go. Glen watched him through his glasses, until he reached the post, thinking how much depended upon him. Barellan was carrying his fortunes. If he won what a change there would be in his life. If Jerry had not suggested his buying a ticket probably the opportunity would have gone by. Certainly he must be remembered if Barellan won. Had he not bought the ticket, and, with it, luck?
He looked round. All faces, thousands of them, were turned in one direction, watching the horses at the post, waiting for the signal when they would be dispatched on their journey. There was not much delay; they were well-trained. The starter had the jockeys under control. He was an autocrat, his powers great. It went ill with those who disobeyed him.
They were off; a terrific shout proclaimed it. The race for the great stake had commenced. What Glen Leigh felt at that moment he hardly knew. He had a hazy idea something was going to happen that would dash all his hopes. He shook off the feeling and determined to take a hopeful view of the situation.
Jack was making the pace. He had a light weight. His jockey was told to go ahead and wear the field down; the little fellow was nothing loth to do so; for one thing, he would be out of harm's way, and be in no danger of getting shut in. Jack was a dull grey horse, not a brilliant performer by any means, although on one or two occasions he had shown a turn of speed. There could be no doubt he was on his best behaviour, for, as they passed the stand, he was half a dozen lengths ahead of his field. Glen looked at each horse as they swept past; there was Barellan in the middle division, on the rails, going at an even pace; Roland, the favourite, was just in front of him. Close behind came Isaac, and Mackay; he was in good company.
Round the bend they swept, a cheer greeting them from Tattersalls' stand. Jack spread out, increasing his lead as they entered the back stretch. Half-way along the field closed up. There was not a long tail. It was a pretty sight, thirty-one bright colours showing up, glinting in the sunlight. The sheds were reached when racing began in earnest, for no laggards here had any chance of success.
Glen's glasses were levelled on the sky-blue jacket. He wondered when Nicholl would make a forward move. He became anxious. Was he lying too far back? Ought he not to be nearer the front? Why did he let Jack get so far ahead? These and sundry other questions jostled each other in Glen's mind.
Bill Bigs, and Jim, were standing together on the terrace. They had a fair view of the race.
"Jack's got a lead on them," said Bill.
"He'll give way before long," replied Jim.
"Don't you be too sure, young man," said someone behind him. "I've seen Jack do a good couple of miles several times lately."
"You don't think he'll win?" asked Bill.
"I won't go so far as that, but I reckon he'll put up a good fight," answered the stranger: then asked, "What have you backed?"
"Barellan," said Bill.
"A friend of mine's on him. He fancies him a lot. Knows his owner, I believe."
"So do I. He's not much to know," remarked Bill.
The stranger laughed.
"He is rather unpopular," he said.
"Look!" cried Jim. "Barellan and the favourite are going up."
Glen Leigh saw the move on Nicholl's part. His heart was in his mouth. The jockey had just squeezed Barellan through on the rails and the favourite had to go on the outside. As they neared the home turn the crowd shouted. The names of half a dozen horses rang out clearly over the course.
Jack was first into the straight. He had made all the running and was still going strong. Glen wondered if they would get on terms with him.
Isaac, finding an opening, dashed through. The Derby winner was bound to be thereabouts. He had run well and was coming out at the right time; his rider's pink jacket and white cap showed conspicuously.
Mackay's jockey pushed his mount and ran into third place, behind Jack and Isaac. They were all in the straight now, thirty-one runners, and the centre lot, numbering about a score, were all of a heap. The jackets looked bunched together, a many-hued mass of colour.
Barellan lost his position on the rails as they rounded the bend. He was not forced out but ran wide. Nicholl, taken by surprise at this move, thought it must be his leg pained him, and he wanted more room. He grew anxious. There was a slight faltering on Barellan's part. He must be nursed carefully or he might break down, and nursing at this critical point, when every horse with a chance was making a run, spelt defeat, being left behind. As it was Barellan fell back when he ought to have come into the front rank.
Glen Leigh's hand shook as he held his glasses. The sky-blue jacket was right away at the end of the middle division. Barellan's chance looked forlorn. His hopes were shattered; the thousands vanished into thin air; it was what he might have expected. How could he win with only a sovereign invested? It was absurd on the face of it. He was foolish to buoy himself with false hopes. He had raised a mirage in which he saw happiness and full content. Now it vanished and would never appear again.
"It is all up," he muttered. "I was a fool to think I could win such a sum."
"Hang it all, where's that beastly blue jacket got to?" said Bill.
"Right away back," returned Jim. "We're done. I'm sorry for Glen."
It was with mingled feelings Bellshaw saw Barellan fall back; he wanted to win a Melbourne Cup, at the same time he wished Leigh to lose his sweep money. He hardly knew which feeling was the stronger. If Barellan were beaten he would have the satisfaction of knowing Leigh had been done out of thousands and there was a chance that he, Bellshaw, might win the Cup another time.
Ivor Hadwin guessed why Barellan ran wide and lost his place at the bend. It was the strain on his bound foot which caused it; he ran out to ease it. Would he regain his position? He doubted it, but knew the horse was one of the gamest, and at the end of two miles he went as fast as the average horse at the end of half the distance, so he hoped for the best as he fixed his glasses on the sky-blue jacket.
Jack shot his bolt. He had done well, and was not disgraced, but the pace and the distance proved too much for him. Isaac took his place, the Derby winner coming along in great style. His numerous admirers and supporters were on good terms with themselves. Roland came with a rattle and ran into third place behind Isaac and Out Back, who made a terrific run from the bend. A large field of horses in the straight, at the finishing struggle for a Melbourne Cup, is one of the most exciting scenes in the racing world; it rouses the lethargic to some sort of enthusiasm, and a lover of the great game almost goes frantic over it. From the moment the horses race in desperate earnest, when the bend is cleared, the pent-up excitement continues until the winning post is passed.
Glen Leigh, with a matter of twenty-five thousand at issue, looked on wonderingly; even the melancholy fact that Barellan was so far back did not obliterate from view the grand sight he witnessed. As he looked at the various horses, one by one, from Isaac in the lead, his rider's pink jacket and white cap standing out alone, he gave a gasp of surprise. What caused it?
"Look at Barellan!" yelled a man standing near him.
Glen looked, his eyes glued on the sky-blue jacket. It was this which had caused the gasp of surprise. Barellan was going great guns, and passing horse after horse in a remarkable manner. His name was shouted over the course, far and wide.
"Barellan, Barellan!"
CHAPTER XXVII
WHAT A FINISH!
What looked like a hopeless position was turned into a promising situation as Barellan came up the course at a tremendous pace. It was a thrilling sight, watching the sky-blue jacket forging ahead, and Glen Leigh's pulses beat rapidly. His body quivered as it had never done before as he watched Barellan galloping the field to a standstill. The shouting was tremendous. The noise deafening. Barellan's name echoed over the course. Smack, on Roland, cast a hasty glance back and caught sight of the blue on the outside. Barellan had "dropped from the clouds." It was now or never. If he caught Isaac he might win. He raised his whip, shaking it at the favourite. The gallant Caulfield Cup winner responded gamely and was soon at the Derby winner's quarters. In another moment he crept up, drawing level, and there was a rare set-to for the advantage.
Nicholl watched the leading pair. A smile flickered across his face. They were playing into his hands, wearing each other down. The struggle must tell, and there was still a furlong to go. Almost level with Barellan were Rosehill and Out Back, the last named still going well. When Barellan forged ahead and left them there was a terrific yell. Glen Leigh dropped his glasses in his excitement. A man picked them up, handing them to him, saying with a smile, "I expect you're on Barellan."
"I drew him in the sweep," said Glen.
The man stared at him, then said, "And you stand a good chance of winning. Lucky fellow, you are."
The chase commenced. Three to four lengths in front were Isaac and Roland. The form was coming out well. If Barellan beat the Derby and Caulfield Cup winners he would indeed be a great horse. When he lost his place, and fell back soon after rounding the bend, there were at least a dozen lengths to make up. It seemed impossible it could be done. Nicholl rode with splendid judgment, nursing his mount carefully, easing him as far as he dare, but he could not afford to lose more ground. Then came the sudden spurt on the horse's part, without being forced. It was a spontaneous effort, without pressure, and Nicholl's hopes rose rapidly. His winning prospects increased with every stride.
Pandemonium reigned on the course. This was to be a most exciting finish. If Barellan kept up his run to the finish there was no telling what might happen.
Isaac was on the rails, Roland level with him, the pair racing in grim earnest, fighting as only the best thoroughbreds can; no giving way, no acknowledging defeat, a battle of giants, stern, determined, the jockeys helping their mounts with all the skill and experience at their command.
Barellan, and Out Back, were having a tussle behind the leading pair. The spectators, roused to a boiling pitch of excitement, watched first the leaders, then the others, and wondered if the latter pair would get up.
It was a breathless scene, full of strange emotion, bringing out all the pent-up enthusiasm that nothing can rouse like a great race. People watched with bated breath; hands shook, hearts palpitated, eyes blinked, faces twitched, nerves twinged, pulses beat rapidly. In all those thousands no one appeared to stand quite still. There were movements everywhere; it was impossible to restrain them.
Glen Leigh's mind was in a whirl.
Twenty-five thousand pounds at stake, a fortune on Barellan and the horse was only a few lengths from the winning post. He guessed how many, twenty, thirty, more, less, which was it? What did it matter, if only he won at the finish!
"He'll win, he'll win, he'll win," seemed to be the refrain in Glen's ears as he now and then caught a dull sound of hoofs when there were brief lulls in the shouting.
"Go on, Luke," he yelled. "Go on. You'll catch 'em."
He could not restrain his feelings. He must shout or something would happen. The strain was too great. There might be a snap, and then collapse.
Glen Leigh was a strong man, hard and fit, but the perspiration stood on his forehead like beads, then gradually trickled down his face. He did not feel it. Even when the drops wet his eyes he took no notice. He glared at the sky-blue jacket through a mist which soon passed, although for the moment it dimmed his vision. He put down the glasses. He could see without them. The horses were not far off. He bent forward, swayed a little. The man who had spoken to him thought he was about to fall and caught him by the arm. He remembered a policeman, who had drawn the winner, falling down dead on the lawn as the horses passed the post.
Glen felt the friendly pressure, and said in a thick voice, "Thanks. I'm all right."
Roar after roar came from the surging crowd as Roland, the favourite, got his head in front of Isaac.
The shouts of triumph rang in the air, heralding the victory of the favourite, and when this happens in a Melbourne Cup the scene baffles description. Who that saw it will ever forget the wonderful victory of Carbine when he carried top weight, started favourite, and beat Forester's Highborn, and Correze, both outsiders, easily? It was a sight seen only once in a lifetime. It equalled Persimmon's Derby, if it did not surpass it, and "Old Jack" took it all quietly, for, as he passed the winning post, he stopped, turned round, and made for the weighing enclosure without any assistance from Ramage, his pilot. This race was more exciting than Carbine's Cup even, for there were four horses in it, all with chances, and close on the winning post.
"Even hundred nobody names it," yelled a bookmaker in the ring. It was a safe offer, for nobody could name it except by a lucky guess.
Roland was a neck in front of Isaac, Out Back and Barellan were on their quarters.
An electric current seemed to shoot through the living mass of human beings and galvanise them into life; such a shout rent the air as had not been heard at Flemington before. There had been desperate finishes between two horses, but here were four putting up one of the greatest battles ever seen.
Glen Leigh shook with excitement. Small wonder at it, for the sky-blue jacket had passed Out Back, and drawn almost level with Isaac.
"I'm sure of the place money," thought Glen with a sigh of relief.
Sure of the place money! In another second Barellan looked all over a winner. Roland, hard ridden, held his own. Isaac was only half a length off, the three together, with Out Back on the Derby winner's quarters. What a fight, and what a great compliment to the handicapper, for behind the leading four came a cluster of six, not two lengths away.
Bill Bigs and Jim were well nigh frantic. Their hats were off. They yelled, "Barellan," until they were hoarse.
Ivor Hadwin turned pale. The strain was almost more than he could bear. If, if only Barellan got his head in front as they passed the judge's box.
"He will. He'll win," almost shouted the trainer, who had to give way under the pressure. His shouts acted like a safety valve.
Barellan was head and head with Isaac, Roland half a length to the good, and the winning post a few yards away.
Luke Nicholl, for the first time, raised his whip. He was on the outside and his right arm was free.
One cut, another, a third, not too sharp, just sufficient to sting, to give Barellan a reminder.
The effect was astounding. Barellan, acting under the unexpected, went forward with a final rush. His speed was so great that he caught up to the favourite in two strides; his head shot out, his nostrils red and wide, his eyes glared, his nose, then half a head, was in front; a fraction of a second's suspense, then he claimed a head advantage, then half a neck, a neck, and when this was realised the stands seemed to shake with the deafening noise. It was marvellous. Rounding the bend Barellan had fallen back a dozen lengths. His case seemed hopeless. He had made up all the lost ground in the straight, and now he had his neck in front of all the runners.
Roland made a desperate effort, reducing the distance to half a neck again. Isaac drew up, so did Out Back. The four horses were all together.
Glen Leigh looked, and looked. He had a dim vision of blue, pink, black, white, red, orange, mixed together. Was the blue in front? He thought so. How he hoped no one else knew.
At last the struggle was at an end. The horses passed the post, four of them with not a length between them. An anxious pause; thousands of people could not tell which had won, the numbers were not up. The judge seemed a long time hoisting them, but up they went at last. He placed Barellan first, Roland second, a neck away, Isaac and Out Back, half a length away, dead heat for third place.
What a finish!