The Sweep Winner Part 36

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 pa.s.sed 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 gla.s.ses 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 ma.s.s 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 gla.s.ses. 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 gla.s.ses 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 pa.s.sed.

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 pa.s.sing 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 gla.s.ses 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.