LAME
Craig Bellshaw soon heard who was the drawer of Barellan in the great
Melbourne Cup Sweep. Glen Leigh held the ticket. He smiled wickedly. He
had found out that Glen had been a welcome visitor at Mrs. Prevost's. So
this was the man who had supplanted him. He wished him joy of his
bargain; he'd find it pretty expensive. No doubt it was Leigh who called
when he, Bellshaw, was ordered out of the house. If he had only known he
would have enlightened him there and then; he intended doing so at the
first favourable opportunity. He'd make it particularly hot and sultry
for Mrs. Prevost, put a spoke in her wheel that even Glen Leigh would
not care to try and pull out. A keeper of the fence, a common showman, a
rider of buckjumpers, to be ousted by such a man--it made Craig
Bellshaw writhe. He did not call at Sea View before he left for
Melbourne; there was time enough. He'd put in an appearance when he had
fairly choked Leigh off, made him sick of the whole business. He hated
him, he hated Mrs. Prevost for throwing him over, and he vowed vengeance
against them. Leigh had thwarted him in many ways when he had been on
the fence. Bellshaw recalled how on one occasion he had given him the
lie direct at a meeting held at Boonara, and had proved his statement up
to the hilt. This had lessened the owner of Mintaro's prestige
considerably, and he had not forgiven it.
Glen Leigh had drawn Barellan. Bellshaw chuckled, a curious gurgling
sound, more like the growling of a dog. This decided him. He had
returned to Sydney after the Caulfield Cup; he didn't care for
Melbourne. He took train back again as soon as he heard who had drawn
Barellan in the sweep.
He always stayed at Scott's. He walked there from Spencer Street
Station, along Collins Street.
"Hallo, Bellshaw, back again?"
It was Nick Gerard who, for a wonder, was in that part of the town.
"You, Nick. What's the news?"
"I expect you know it all; you're never much behind the times where your
interests are concerned. By Gad, perhaps you don't know; it only
happened this morning. When did you arrive?"
"I've just come in by the express. What's up?"
"Your horse, Barellan."
"Well?"
"He went lame on the track at Flemington this morning, limped away
badly, and it's the week before the race. He'll not have much time to
pull round. I'm sorry for you. It's deuced bad luck, but you can stand
it. I'm more sorry for that chap, Glen Leigh, who drew him in the sweep.
It's rough on him. I like him; he's the best roughrider I ever saw. I'm
open to bet there isn't a bucker in Australia can get rid of him in a
quarter of an hour. I told him I'd bet a level thousand, two thousand
if anybody wanted it, and give him half if he won," said Nick.
"My horse lame!" exclaimed Bellshaw, ignoring the latter part of Nick's
remarks.
"Dead lame, from all accounts. I didn't see him, but I met Luke Nicholl
in Bourke Street, and he told me. He was on his back, so he ought to
know," said the bookmaker.
"Damn him! He'd no right to say anything about it, especially to a
bookmaker," cried Bellshaw angrily.
"And pray why not? What have I done? The fact will be in all the evening
papers. Most men I met at the Club were talking about it."
"Were they? It's a den of thieves," almost shouted Bellshaw, in his
anger.
"You're talking rot," said Nick, who knew his man. He also had a fairly
thick skin, and such remarks failed to penetrate it. "Have you been
playing 'solo' all the way from Sydney and losing, or what's ruffled
you?"
"I never play 'solo' or hazards," sneered Bellshaw.
"Well, I do, and I'm considered a fairly good hand at the former. As to
hazards, I'll not say much about that. I'm out on the green cloth, out a
biggish sum, but I can't leave off. It's in my blood. I must throw the
dice sometimes," said Nick.
"More fool you. Where are you going?"
"To the Federal."
Bellshaw smiled grimly.
"What have you got there? Is she nice? bewitching? or just an ordinary
filly?" he asked.
"It's a man, a dashed clever fellow, but he's one failing, and it's got
fairly hold of him since he's been in Melbourne this time. I've known
him come here and never touch a drop the whole blessed time, but he's
been knocked out this trip. I'd like to find out the beggar who led him
on. I'd give him a piece of my mind," said Nick hotly.
"Haven't you enough to do without wasting your time over a boozer?"
"He's always been a friend of mine; he's done all his expenses in, and
hasn't a bean. I mean to see him through, if he'll promise to keep
straight until the meeting's over."
"And do you suppose he will?" sneered Bellshaw.
"Yes, if he gives me his word," replied Nick.
"You're blessed with an uncommon amount of faith," said Bellshaw.
"And you've got none, not even in yourself. If you'd any pluck you'd not
squeal because Barellan's gone lame. He may pull round. Hadwin's a
clever man with dicky horses."
"He's an ass or he'd not have galloped the horse to a standstill. I told
him he was giving him too much work."
"I'm more sorry for him than you," said the bookmaker.
Bellshaw laughed cynically, ignored the remark and asked, "Who's your
sick friend at the Federal?"
"Jerry Makeshift, of 'The Sketch,' one of the best, the very best, a
jewel with only one flaw in it."
"A gem of the first water, with whiskey in it," jeered Bellshaw.
"And supposing he is? That's better than being a grinding, snarling,
miserable money-grubber," retorted Nick.
"Who's in a bad temper now?" asked Bellshaw.
"You're enough to rile a parson," said Nick.
"I never tried. I don't know much about 'em. I haven't got a chaplain at
Mintaro."
"By all accounts you ought to have."
"What for?"
"To marry you," said Nick laughing.
Bellshaw swore and left him. Nick looked after him.
"He's a rotter if ever there was one, but he's been straight with me so
far, and he'd better continue to walk the line. The first time he steps
off it I'll push him right down," he thought, then went into the
Federal.
"Is Mr. Makeshift in?" he asked the young lady presiding over the entry
book in the desk, on the right hand side near the door.
"Oh, it's you, Mr. Gerard. Yes, he's in. He's been asking for you," and
she told him where to find him.
Nick ascended the stairs, knocked at the door.
"Come in," said a thick voice.
Nick entered and found Jerry struggling with a sketch.
"I don't feel a bit humorous," said Jerry.
"You're a pretty specimen," began Nick.
"Look here, Old Nick, if you've come here to upbraid me I don't want to
see you. What I want is ten pounds to see me through."
Nick laughed.
"I'll let you have it if you promise to keep all right."
"Snakes alive. You don't suppose I want to be sacked, do you?" exclaimed
Jerry.
"I'd be sorry if you were, so would thousands of people. We'd all miss
you, Jerry. 'The Sketch' wouldn't be the same paper," answered Nick.
"That's awfully good of you," said the repentant Jerry. "It means a lot
to me. I'll not go back on you, Nick, I promise you, and you shall have
some good stuff to amuse you next week."
"That's right, old boy. Buck up. Here's the cash. Have you heard the
latest?"
"I haven't been out for days."
"Barellan's lame; Nicholl told me this morning. I've just met Bellshaw.
He's in a towering rage, cursing everybody, and everything. He can
handle some language when he likes. He's a heavyweight at it," said
Nick.
"Bellshaw's a beast," replied Jerry. "I'm not sorry for him, but I am
for Leigh and Hadwin."
"So am I, and I told him so," said Nick.
"What'll happen?" asked Jerry.
"I suppose he'll scratch him if there's no chance of getting him to the
post."
"Lame horses have gone to the post and won a Melbourne Cup," said Jerry.
"I'd sooner have one with four legs sound."
"I say, Nick?"
"Yes."
"What do you fancy?"
"If Barellan gets right I think he'll win."
"And if not?"
"Roland."
"The Caulfield Cup winner?"
"Yes. He's a good horse--better than folks imagine."
"But his penalty?"
"He's a weight carrier. His trainer says he'd a stone in hand at
Caulfield."
"That settles it," said Jerry.