THE SYDNEY CUP
CUP DAY was one of unbroken sunshine and brightness, one of those days,
so frequent in Sydney, when only to breathe and respire is a pleasure and
a joy.
At an early hour the trams and ’buses were loaded with sightseers bound
for Randwick. A stranger might regret, at the sight of these orderly and
well-dressed groups, the absence of that abandon and camaraderie between
rich and poor that is so distinctive of a great racing carnival in
conservative England.
For all outward sign to the contrary, this demure throng might be going
to attend a prayer-meeting; not even a “drunk” to relieve their intense
respectability. At Randwick itself, the same decorum. The spieler and
the sharper were there, it is true, but in subdued, unpoetic form—the
fear of the “copman” in their eyes and movements. Law and Order presided
over all. Now, Law and Order, however admirable in themselves as
abstract entities, are, for the being overflowing with pent-up animal
spirits, profoundly dull.
* * * * *
In the vast crowd that filled the grandstand it would have been difficult
to detect Huey Gosper; but there he was in a sheltered corner, quiet,
sardonic, and watchful of all.
His eyes were everywhere, and particularly did their glance follow the
big check suit worn by Alec Booth as this individual, uneasy and excited,
wandered from place to place, from paddock to lawn, from lawn to stand,
in fretful uneasiness.
* * * * *
The following account is taken from the _Evening Times_—
“The preliminary events of the day caused little excitement. All minds
were eager for the big event. The favourite, Revolver, hardened, if
anything, in the betting, as the eventful moment drew nigh, and his name
was buzzed about on every hand; but the second string of the public, the
mare Bertha, was not lacking in friends. Seven to one was readily
snapped up by the backers of the filly, and a whole lot of outsiders had
a small following. But as far as the bulk of public money was concerned,
the race was reduced to a match between Revolver and Bertha.
“At the very last moment there was a hasty rush on The Vengeance, a colt
never before mentioned prominently in the betting.
“At last they faced the starter. One, two, three breaks away, and then
the almost perfect silence was dissipated by a great roar from the crowd
as the flag flashed down to a magnificent start.
“They are off!
“Up the straight it is hard to separate them. They are a moving mass of
colour and horseflesh. Passing the stand Country Boy, taking advantage
of his light impost, shows the way, but not for long. At the tan
crossing Isabel shot to the front, and already the field is beginning to
spread out. The favourite, going easily, can be seen well in the van,
with Bertha and The Vengeance in close attendance. At Oxenham’s Isabel
came back to her field, and here Bertha shot to the front. She was
pulling hard and fighting for her head with her jockey. In the end he
seemed powerless to restrain her, for she came away like a shot from a
gun, leaving her field standing. There was a great shout from the
ring—‘Bertha’s beat!’ ‘She’s bolted!’ ‘Twenty to one Bertha!’ ‘Forty
to one Bertha!’ But there were no takers.
“In the meantime the field was creeping up. Opposite the stand fifty
yards separated Isabel (now second in command) from Bertha, Revolver, at
her girths, third, and Country Boy fourth, the rest of the field in a
pack. The pace so far was a cracker, and at the rising ground already
quenched the hopes of the backers of most of the outsiders, who tailed
off like a procession. At the five-furlong post Bertha still led, and at
the half-mile the struggle commenced in earnest. Isabel here melted
away, and was seen no more in the front division. Country Boy once again
flattered his admirers, and led a gallant, stern chase after the errant
Bertha. Here Double Dutchman came out from the ruck, and showed the way
to a whole host so far considered his betters. At the half-furlong the
whip was drawn on Revolver, who, responding gamely, drew up to within a
length of Bertha. A cry went up, ‘The favourite wins!’ but it died away,
as did the horse named, in the next hundred yards.
“Now the supporters of Bertha found voice, and there were loud cries of
her name. At the home turn Double Dutchman came on like an express, but
Bertha still led, though evidently nearly done. At the half-distance a
new champion appeared on the scene, as though fallen from the clouds.
The black colt, The Vengeance, coming with a wet sail, passed everything
on the course like so many mile-stones. In the straight he fairly caught
the flagging Bertha, and there was a roar from Israel as though they had
just sighted the Promised Land.
“But the race was not yet over, the sound of a competitor seemed to wake
Bertha up, for with a new fire the plucky filly disputed the way inch by
inch. It was now easy to see that her jockey had no part in her efforts,
and was quite outmastered by her.
“On The Vengeance the whip was falling like a flail, and from the stand
it was impossible to pick the leader as they passed the post. But a
great shout of relief went up when Bertha’s number appeared on the board,
and it was known she had won by a head.
“It may be truly said such a Cup race was never run before, for the
winning jockey now admits that early from the start he lost all control
of his mount. She is notoriously bad-tempered, so that whip and spurs
are never used with her; but of her thorough gameness there is now no
question.
“The surprise of the meeting was the running of The Vengeance. His
display of form is a revelation, and it is to be inferred a most
unwelcome one for somebody’s apple-cart.”
* * * * *
The result being known, Alec Booth was fairly delirious with joy. The
whole earth was Heaven to him now and for evermore. All and everybody
must drink his health, and the mare’s health, and in champagne of the
best, and he was surrounded by a throng eager to praise and congratulate
him.
Never in his life before, never in his life again, would Alec feel the
fierce joy of that moment. He had dared all, tossed up Ruin against
Fortune, and Fortune had come down right side up. And he swelled with
pride as he thought how he, an ignorant country lad, had bested the smart
Australian turfites at their own game.
No thought at this moment of Soft Sam, not one; it was he, Alec Booth,
who had planned, designed, and carried out all.
But a far different man was creeping away on the outskirts of that crowd.
Huey Gosper had the face of a suicide. With an execration on his lips he
left the course. So nearly to have won, and yet lost? And he had made
so sure of it. Who could have foreseen that that brute of a Bertha would
have run her own race, despite all the pulling jockeys in the world? And
now the true form of The Vengeance was given away. He might as well be
shot for all the use of him. It was as Soft Sam had said, Bertha was a
bit the best of the pair. Why had he not followed the old man, and not
been a fool? But he must take his gruel like a man, he told himself
that, and there were other means open for a man of brains and resolution.
Alec had not married Bertha yet, and Alec, curse him, would have to fight
once again to win her. If he had only Soft Sam to help him it could be
managed, but there was no hope there, for Soft Sam, as he knew, would
take no side in the quarrel. Sam, he remembered, had wanted to know that
Sunday on the Domain why he had not asked Bertha to marry him. He would
take the advice. She might say Yes; then all would be well. Alec might
keep his cup, and good luck to him.
So he schemed and hoped and feared, wandering about, a bitter, blighted
man.