The Sweep Winner

"She may never recover it," said Jim.

"She will, I'm sure of it, and through Mrs. Prevost, who will help her. She's a sympathetic woman, and I told her all about it, everything. She'll do all in her power to bring back her lost memory; she said she would," Glen answered.

After this conversation Jim was a different man.

All along he had been jealous of Glen; now the cause was removed. Sometimes he gave a thought to Joe Calder, but he felt no regret for what he had done; the man had brought it on himself.

"If I hadn't shot him he'd have done for me," said Jim to himself.

The show arrived safely in Melbourne, and opened in a large tent on the St. Kilda Road. Crowds flocked to it, and before the first week was over Glen knew they were in for an even better season than in Sydney. They started business the Saturday before the Caulfield Cup. The tent was packed every night, and sometimes twice a day.

Ivor Hadwin arrived at Caulfield with his horses, Barellan, Flash, and a couple of others.

Betting on the two Cups was brisk, and Barellan was well backed by the public at a hundred to eight.

Bellshaw had been laid a fair sum to nothing by the drawer of Flash in the Caulfield Cup Sweep.

The first Hundred Thousand Pound Sweep on the Melbourne Cup was to be drawn in Sydney on Monday night.

When Glen Leigh was informed he laughed, and said, "I don't set much account on it. A fellow can't expect to get anything with one ticket in a hundred thousand."

There was a tremendous race for the Caulfield Cup, and Flash ran third, being beaten by Roland and Mackay.

Flash ran a remarkably fast race. Ivor Hadwin hardly thought him good enough to win and he died away a furlong from the post. Knowing what Barellan could do with Flash on the track, the trainer told Nicholl he thought the Melbourne Cup was pretty nearly as good as won.

The result of the drawing for the Hundred Thousand Pound Sweep on the Melbourne Cup was made public on the Wednesday. Glen Leigh received a wire from Bill Bigs which fairly astonished him.

"You have drawn Barellan. Good luck, Bill."

This was astounding news indeed. He had only one ticket in the sweep, number 33444, and it had drawn Barellan, third favourite for the great race. Was there ever such a stroke of luck! Glen could hardly believe in his good fortune. Barellan was Bellshaw's horse which made it more remarkable still. All his friends connected with the show crowded round congratulating him. He was regarded as a kind of hero. The first prize was close upon twenty-five thousand pounds, and there were numerous other large and small sums to be divided. He was bound to get one of the first three big prizes with such a horse as Barellan running for him, so said everybody who knew him.

Ivor Hadwin heard the news with mixed feelings; he was glad Leigh had drawn the horse, but wondered what would happen if he declined to give Craig Bellshaw a cut out of the sweep money. It was impossible to keep the fact that Leigh had drawn Barellan a secret, nor had he any wish it should be so.

"I've drawn the horse; where's the harm in people knowing it?" said Glen.

Bill Bigs arrived in Melbourne, and consulted with Glen as to what was best to be done.

Bill advised him to lay some of it against Barellan. He could stand to win a large sum to nothing, and if the horse lost he would also be a winner. Glen, however, was adamant on this point. He declared he would not lay off a penny; he'd stand the thing right out.

"It's only cost me a pound," he said. "That's not much, and I'd sooner go the whole hog and win the lot, if Barellan wins. If he loses I shall not grumble."

"Please yourself," said Bill. "From all I hear you stand a good chance of pulling it off at the first time of asking. It's an extraordinary piece of luck, that's what it is. I know fellows who have been going in for sweeps for years and have never drawn a horse. I've been doing it for a dozen years, and all I ever got was a non-starter."

"You shall have a couple of hundred if Barellan wins," said Glen. "So shall Jim, and I'll see Hadwin and Nicholl have a trifle."

"You're distributing the cash before you've won," laughed Bill.

"Half the fun of things is to anticipate, and plan out what you'll do with the money," Glen laughed back.

"So it is. I've drawn some nice little pictures myself, but they've always been rubbed out, not so much as a daub remaining," said Bill.

When Glen met Hadwin, the trainer asked, "I suppose you've not heard from Bellshaw?"

"No. What do I want to hear from him for?" replied Glen.

Hadwin smiled.

"You've not had much experience of sweeps. Owners generally expect a good slice out of them," he said.

"If Bellshaw expects to get me to lay him a big slice he's mistaken. I shan't lay him a penny," replied Glen determinedly.

"For goodness' sake don't say that," expostulated Hadwin in genuine alarm.

"Why not? I mean it."

"It will ruin me, Leigh, ruin me. I've backed Barellan for all I'm worth, or nearly so," said the trainer.

"Well, my drawing him in the sweep won't stop him winning."

"No, I don't mean that. I think he will win, but if you don't lay Bellshaw a fair sum, there's no telling what he'll do."

"What can he do?" asked Glen, surprised.

"Scratch him," said Hadwin in a low tremulous voice.

CHAPTER XXI

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.

CHAPTER XXII

SWEEP MONEY

After the Caulfield Cup, Hadwin took the horses to Flemington, where they were boxed at the top of the hill, at the Racecourse Hotel, where many good horses have had their quarters.

Thither Bellshaw went, when he had been to Scott's, and cleansed himself from the grime that accumulated coming from Albury to Melbourne. He was not popular at the hotel. His generosity was of the miserly kind, and everybody knew it. Still he was the owner of Barellan, the sensational horse of the hour, and people wondered if it would be a case of another Assassin, who was reported lame, and won easily.

The head waiter said, "It's just up to Bellshaw to plant a lame 'un on us, and then for the horse to come up smiling and win."

When Bellshaw arrived at the Racecourse Hotel he at once saw Hadwin, and there was a stormy scene.

"I told you he'd break down if you gave him such strong work," said Bellshaw.

"He hasn't broken down," retorted the trainer.

"Gerard told me he's dead lame."

"That's different to breaking down. He's not dead lame."

"Then what's the matter with him?"

"Limped when he pulled up, that's all."

"Isn't that enough the week before the race?" growled Bellshaw.

"It would be under certain circumstances, but it's not serious."

"You think he'll be fit to run?"

The trainer laughed.

"Of course he will. Who put that silly idea into your head?"

"Let's look at him."

They walked down the yard to Barellan's box.

"Bring him out," said Bellshaw.

Hadwin called the head lad and the horse was led out. He limped slightly. His near fore-leg was swollen.

"It doesn't look hopeless," said Bellshaw.

"It isn't. He'll be all right in a couple of days, and he's as fit as he can be. The rest will not do him any harm."

"I haven't seen Leigh yet," said Bellshaw.

"You'll have no difficulty in finding him."

"He'll have to come down handsomely over the sweep money."

"I don't think he will. I shouldn't be surprised if he declines to lay you at all."

"He'll do it. If he doesn't I'll scratch Barellan."

"You dare not. There would be a terrible outcry against you."

"What do I care? He's my horse; I can do as I like with him."

"If you scratch him you'll throw the Cup away."

"You're confident. What makes you so sanguine?"

"I know what he can do, and after Flash's running in the Caulfield Cup it is a good thing," returned the trainer.

"Don't say anything about the lameness being slight," said Bellshaw. "You're sure to have someone rooting round for information."

"Very well," said Hadwin, who intended doing as he thought fit.

At night Bellshaw went to the Show and saw Glen Leigh ride The Savage. He admired his skill; he could not help it.

After the performance he went round to see Glen Leigh and had a cool reception.

"I've come about the Sweep," he said. "You've drawn my horse."

"He's lame," answered Glen. "Just my luck. Will he run?"

"It all depends."

"Depends whether he's got over it by Tuesday?" said Glen.

"It depends on you."

"What have I got to do with it?"

"A good deal. You've drawn Barellan in the Sweep, and I expect a cut out of it."

"Do you, and how much do you expect?"

"Half of what you draw. That's fair."

Glen laughed as he said, "You don't want much. You'd better have the lot."

"It's a fair proposition," said Bellshaw.

"I drew Barellan and I shall stick to anything I get out of it," Glen replied.

"You mean you will give me nothing out of the Sweep?"

"Not a farthing," snapped Glen.

"Then do you know what I shall do?"

"No."

"I shall scratch him."

"A nice sportsmanlike proceeding that would be," said Glen.

"I don't run my horse for your benefit, or the benefit of the public."

"So I always understood," answered Glen.

"Consider it over. If you do not make me a fair offer by Saturday I'll strike him out on Monday."

"I don't think you will," said Glen, in a mildly irritating way.

"But I shall."

"Again I repeat I don't think you will."

"Why not?"

"Because I can advance some weighty reasons against your doing so."

"To which I shall not listen," said Bellshaw.

"To which I am certain you will listen, and, having heard them, will fall in with my views."

Bellshaw was fast losing his temper. He had no idea what Leigh was driving at.

"I tell you again if you don't come down handsomely with the sweep money I'll strike him out."

"And I say you will not," retorted Glen.

Gerard came round to see Glen Leigh. Jerry Makeshift, and Tom Roslyn were with him.

"How's your horse?" Tom asked Bellshaw.

"Lame," snapped the owner of Barellan, who objected to being questioned by the representative of "Racing Life" or any other journalist.

"I'm quite aware of that, but as I presume you have seen him since your arrival, I thought perhaps you could give me some later information to wire to Sydney. There will be considerable excitement over the mishap," said Tom in his most placid manner, at the same time wishing Bellshaw at the uttermost part of the earth.

"You know as much as I do," returned Bellshaw. "If he doesn't pull round by Monday he'll be struck out."

Glen Leigh looked at him with contempt. He knew Bellshaw would not be so anxious about the sweep money if Barellan were dead lame, a hopeless case.

"That won't be the reason he's struck out," said Glen and they all looked at him questioningly.

Bellshaw turned on him in a rage.

"It's a lie. It will be because he's lame if he's struck out."

Glen laughed.

"You told me a few minutes ago you'd strike Barellan out if I did not give you a cut out of the sweep," he said.

Tom Roslyn smiled knowingly at Jerry as much as to say, "That's more like it."

"I say, Bellshaw, you'd never do a dirty thing like that?" said Nick.

"I've told you my horse is lame; I also told Leigh I expected a cut out of the sweep, and he said he wouldn't lay me anything. Do you think that's fair?" Bellshaw asked.

"He's drawn the horse; he can do as he likes. Personally I don't think an owner has any right to demand sweep money," said Tom.

"That's your opinion, is it? I expect you'd talk differently if you owned Barellan," sneered Bellshaw.

"If a lucky drawer of the sweep money offered me a portion I'd take it, but I'd never demand it," replied Tom.

"I mean to get some of it anyhow," declared Bellshaw.

"Then if Barellan will start on those conditions," said Tom, "he can't be so bad. I think I'll risk it and wire to that effect. It will relieve his backers."

"Wire if you like, but don't say I gave you the information."

"Not willingly, but putting one thing with another I think I am justified in wiring that your horse's lameness is not so serious as at first supposed," answered Tom.

"Then you'll be misleading the public, as you have done many a time."

"I never mislead the public, knowingly," said Tom.

"Through ignorance of facts," sneered Bellshaw. "Put it that way."

"You're not making a bed of roses for yourself by going on in this way," said Jerry. "You'll smart for it if you don't mind."

"You've been on the spree ever since you've been here," remarked Bellshaw. "I wonder what your boss would say if he knew."

"You can tell him if you wish. I fancy you'd get your change," retorted Jerry.

Turning to Leigh, Bellshaw said, "I've had enough of this talk. You let me know by Saturday what you are going to do, or I'll act as I said I would."

He left them and walked out of the office.

"The atmosphere's a bit purer now he's gone," said Tom. "Isn't he a bounder?"

"He is. I've a good mind to rub it into him next week. He's a good figure to caricature," answered Jerry.

"Let him alone. Don't waste your talent on him," said Nick.

"I'd better turn my attention to you, and call it 'The Philanthropist'," suggested Jerry smiling.

Nick laughed. He knew to what Jerry alluded.

"I've issued a challenge," he said, "or rather I am about to do so; you can wire it to the 'Life' if you wish to."

"What is it, boxing?"

"No, something more exciting. I'll wager two thousand pounds no one can produce a horse that will throw Glen Leigh in a quarter of an hour. There are conditions of course; it must be a throw, no lying down, and rolling over him, and so on."

"By Jove, that's plucky," said Tom. "He thinks a lot of your riding, Leigh."

"I do. He's the best roughrider in Australia, and that's saying a lot," affirmed Nick.

"We'll draw up the conditions," said Tom, "and I'll forward them."

"Give 'em a month from date in which to find the animals," replied Nick. "We must limit it to six horses, one to be ridden each night. It will pack the place, bring grist to the mill, and it must come off in Sydney. I mean to give Leigh half the stake if he wins, as I feel sure he will."

"What do you say, Leigh?" asked Tom.

"I'll accept with pleasure; I'll ride anything they like to bring in," answered Glen.

"Good man," said Tom. "There'll be some sport. You'll have your work cut out."

Glen smiled confidently.

CHAPTER XXIII

BEATEN

It was Saturday night, and Glen Leigh had sent no word to Bellshaw about the sweep money.

Bellshaw waited impatiently in his private room at the hotel, fretting and fuming.

"If he thinks I don't mean what I said he's mistaken," he muttered. "I'll scratch him right enough. He can't have a very big chance. He limped a bit this morning. He'll have to run in bandages if he starts; that doesn't look very well for a Cup horse. I'm not going to give him all the spoil – not me."

It was ten o'clock and still no word from Glen Leigh. Bellshaw thought he would come round after the show, but he did not.

"I'll wait until Sunday night," thought Bellshaw. "I can go round on Monday morning and scratch him."

Ivor Hadwin went to the show on Saturday night and saw Glen Leigh. He was very anxious about what Bellshaw would do over Barellan, and tried his utmost to persuade Glen to see him about it.

"He'll not scratch him," said Glen. "He dare not."

"You don't know him. He'd do it just to spite you."

"Then he's a fool to throw away a chance of winning the Melbourne Cup out of sheer spite."

"Will you call on him to-morrow morning?" asked the trainer.

"What's the good? There'll only be a scene," replied Glen.

"Think of me, Leigh, the anxiety I've had over the horse for weeks, all the trouble, and now the job of getting him to the post after his lameness. It's heartbreaking," said Hadwin.

Glen relented. For the trainer's sake he would see Bellshaw and try and persuade him not to scratch Barellan, but he was firmly resolved not to yield any sweep money.