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.