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The Sweep Winner
The Sweep Winner
By Nat Gould
[Illustration]
London
John Long, Limited
12, 13 & 14 Norris Street, Haymarket
_All rights reserved_
_Readers are requested to note that all the characters
in this story are purely fictitious, and the names are
not intended to refer to any real person or persons._
TO THE MEMORY OF MY SON
CAPTAIN HERBERT R. GOULD, M.C., R.A.F.
FLIGHT COMMANDER, 18TH SQUADRON
_Killed in Action on the Western Front, August, 1918_
Contents
_Chapter_ _Page_
I. THE GLITTERING WIRE 11
II. IN THE HUT 21
III. A STRANGE SITUATION 31
IV. "IT'S FOR A WOMAN" 41
V. WHY JIM CAME TO THE HUT 51
VI. "COME" 61
VII. THE FACE IN THE WATER 71
VIII. WAYS AND MEANS 81
IX. THE CHINAMAN'S SHOP 91
X. THE ACCUSATION 102
XI. JERRY, JOURNALIST 113
XII. IN SEARCH OF HORSES 123
XIII. LEIGH HEARS STRANGE THINGS 133
XIV. "A MAGNIFICENT BRUTE" 143
XV. THE BIG SHOW 153
XVI. MRS. PREVOST 163
XVII. JEALOUSY 173
XVIII. A QUESTION OF JOCKEYS 183
XIX. MRS. PREVOST'S DILEMMA 194
XX. THE DRAWER OF BARELLAN 205
XXI. LAME 215
XXII. SWEEP MONEY 225
XXIII. BEATEN 236
XXIV. AT FLEMINGTON 247
XXV. HE LOOKED AT HIS TICKET 257
XXVI. BARELLAN FALLS BACK 268
XXVII. WHAT A FINISH! 279
XVIII. A TERRIBLE SAVAGE 288
XXIX. MAN AND HORSE LAY SIDE BY SIDE 299
XXX. THE SWEEP WINNER'S HOME 311
The Sweep Winner
CHAPTER I
THE GLITTERING WIRE
A man on horseback shaded his eyes with his hands as he looked along the
glittering line of wire which runs for hundreds of miles between New
South Wales and Queensland, and forms the great rabbit-proof fence, of
which he was one of the keepers.
The blazing sunlight scorched all things living. Not a blade of grass
was to be seen. The baked ground gasped with thirst. The slight breeze
was like the breath from a huge furnace.
The wire was hot and dazzling. Millions of glimmering specks and
hundreds of thousands of electric sparks danced on it in revelry. Merely
to look at the shimmering wire blinded the eyes. The horse turned his
head away. He was dried, shrivelled, mere skin and bone. Yet he was
strong, enduring, capable of going long journeys; an heroic beast,
fighting a terrific battle against tremendous odds; a faithful
companion, a true friend--always reliable. There was a mute appeal in
his puzzled pathetic eyes, which questioned why such things were; why he
should be rewarded for his efforts with a parched throat, an empty
stomach, and a hot skin.
The man dismounted, carelessly placing his hand on the wire, then
snatching it back quickly, with a sharp oath.
"Everything burns in this cursed country," he muttered.
The horse rubbed his nose against the man's arm.
"Ping, old fellow, it's hotter than hell. Thirsty? of course; so am I.
We'll have to thirst until we reach the next hole."
The man was strong, well-built, six feet high; even the hard life had
not sapped his strength. His dark hair, moustache, and beard, gave him
a sombre appearance. His eyes shone fiercely under bushy brows. His
face, hands and arms were tanned a deep brown, as also was his chest,
where the shirt opened from the throat. He was no common man. His speech
was not that of the keepers of the fence, or the bulk of them, for there
were many and strange beings on these hundreds of miles of wire line.
The majority were old boundary riders, stockmen, tank sinkers, fencers,
teamsters. In another class were criminals, convicts and men whose hands
were against their fellows; who were dangerous sometimes, when they
scented betrayal, or suspected they were being tracked. The man looking
at the mirage in the distance belonged to none of these classes; he
stood out alone. They knew it, and gave him a show of respect, when they
met him, which was seldom.
There must have been some weighty reason for him to bury himself in this
solitude, and to accept an occupation from which any educated man must
shrink. He wanted to be alone. He could not have come to a better
place. Boonara, the nearest bush town, was fifty miles away from where
he stood, and a dozen less from his hut.
He descended upon Boonara at night, and waited for it to wake up. When
it did, surprise was visible on every face as one by one the inhabitants
looked forth from their habitation. The surprise was genuine. It was
long since a man of this stamp had entered Boonara. He was amused at the
people, and wondered if there was one respectably clean inhabitant. Then
he remembered the scarcity of water and pardoned the dirt. He was not
clean himself, but he felt wholesome. His body had been cared for as
much as possible during the week's tramp.
He soon became acquainted with the Boonarites. They gathered round him,
and questions were levelled at him. It was quick firing to which he
responded with solitary shots. At the end of the first day the people of
Boonara were not a jot wiser about him. One fact was patent, he had
money. It was difficult to discover how much, but he "shouted" at Bill
Big's "shanty," and paid his footing, and was so far granted the freedom
of Boonara.
The township of Boonara consisted of one main street, with irregular,
irresponsible-looking houses dotted about, built anyhow. They had been
put up at various times by many different sorts of men. Building
operations commenced at one end and continued at intervals until a sort
of street was formed. The first inhabitant had been a "keeper of the
fence," and he camped there because it was convenient to his work.
Gradually, in oddments, other men came to the place. It was a bachelor
township until some enterprising man, bolder than the rest, and more
saving, ventured to Sydney and returned with a wife. She was the only
woman in the township for a long time, and was regarded with a certain
amount of awe and wonder. The consensus of opinion was that she must
have had a terribly bad time in Sydney, or nothing would have induced
her to marry Jack and come to Boonara. The example set proved catching,
and other members of the bachelor community took unto themselves
partners. The township grew slowly, unlike the centres of big mining
districts which spring up mushroom-like in a night and often die away as
quickly.
Boonara gathered in many of the keepers of the fence, who had tired of
the life and settled there on a mere pittance. It was not a prosperous
community; there was little conversation, and a lot of grumbling. Each
man regarded his neighbour with suspicion, not knowing who he was,
except by name, nor whence he came. All around Boonara was an arid
waste, except at certain seasons, few and far between, when rain came
sweeping in a deluge over the parched earth, filling up the gaping
cracks and crevices, hissing and swishing over the land, bringing life,
in every drop a new birth. Then the plains woke up. Miles upon miles of
dull-brown crumbling grassless spaces became green and refreshing.
Strange sights followed these deluges. In a mysterious manner sheep
appeared in thousands wandering across the plains, nibbling this
wonderful and succulent food from which they had been so long debarred.
Cattle came, mobs of horses, all branded, belonging to squatters miles
away. Nobody seemed to own the land round Boonara. At least no member of
the township had ever heard the name of an owner mentioned. They ran
what cattle, horses and sheep they possessed anywhere on it. There were
no enclosures, no square-mile paddocks. The only fence was the
glittering wire running along the border.
There were very few men in the township who had seen the wire fence. But
they met the keepers of it at long intervals when they paid visits to
Bill's shanty.
In all communities, however small, there is a fierce desire to look down
upon someone, to imagine a superiority. It is a trait which is
laughable, and sometimes pathetic. Although the Boonarites were far from
civilisation they had their pride, and regarded the keepers of the fence
as beings of an inferior order. As the keepers had no respect for the
inhabitants, everybody seemed satisfied with the state of affairs.
There was one keeper of the fence whom the Boonarites placed upon an
equality with themselves, and that was the man who came upon them in the
night.
They were amazed when he went on the glittering wire track. He was far
too good for that job; "he wouldn't stick it long" they declared. He did
"stick it," however, to their great surprise. The man was a mystery to
them, which is not to be wondered at, considering he was mostly a puzzle
to himself. His hut was forty miles away, and only three people had
visited him there. He did not encourage them. Loneliness sat lightly
upon him, so it seemed. Bill Bigs was the most frequent visitor, and
when he rode there, or drove in his buggy, it was seldom empty-handed.
Somewhere, hidden in the bowels of the earth beneath Bill's shanty,
there was mysteriously reported to be spirituous hoards of excellent
quality; these rarely saw the light of day in Boonara. Various
decoctions were served out over the bar, and there was a strange
resemblance in the flavour, no matter from which bottle they were
taken. A "nip" from one of Bill's underground bottles was like nectar
from the gods.
The man on the fence was never served with inferior stuff, and when Bill
visited him he took with him of his best.
Bill Bigs was rough and ready. Rumour credited him with having been in
league with bushrangers, before those undesirable and romantic figures
disappeared from the earth. Probably this was true, but Ben was no
longer an illegitimate preyer upon mankind. He was licensed to "rob" by
doctoring his goods. He prided himself on knowing a man when he saw one,
and he put down the occupier of the hut in this category. He, however,
knew nothing about his friend, except that he was worth a dozen ordinary
fence keepers. The man never spoke of his past, or explained why he was
in the most solitary place in this vast land. In vain Bill tried to
induce him to talk. There was a threatening glitter in his eyes which
caused Bill to halt and get on to another track. It was this man, the
keeper of the fence, who stood under the blazing sun pitying his horse
more than himself. He was waiting for another keeper at the point where
they had met, and had a few words and parted. He shaded his eyes again,
but saw no one coming.
"I'll wait, I'm always waiting. It hasn't worn me out; it never will.
There's a fire within that keeps me alive; it burns, but never dies
down. There's enough fuel in my thoughts to keep it glowing until my
light goes out."