The Sweep Winner

"Very well, I'll see him. I think I have a persuasive way, and I'll try it on him," answered Glen.

The trainer brightened visibly.

"You're a good 'un. I'll not forget it," he said.

About eleven o'clock on Sunday morning Glen Leigh was announced.

Bellshaw smiled when he heard the name of his visitor.

"Show him up," he said, and added to himself, "I thought he'd never be such an ass as to throw a chance away."

Glen entered the room. The only greeting he gave was a nod. He took a chair without being asked, and threw his hat on the table, then leaned back and looked at Bellshaw.

"So you've come to your senses," said Bellshaw. "It's lucky for you the office was closed on Saturday night, or my orders to scratch Barellan would have gone in. There's the letter," and he threw it across the table to him.

Much to Bellshaw's surprise, which quickly changed to anger, Glen Leigh tore it up and let the pieces flutter on the table.

"Damn your impertinence. What do you mean by that?" roared Bellshaw.

A tap at the door. A waiter put in his head.

"Did you call, sir?"

"No – get out," foamed the angry man.

Glen smiled exasperatingly.

"What do you mean by it?" asked Bellshaw again.

"It's a silly useless letter, because you will not scratch Barellan," answered Glen.

Bellshaw simmered down. Leigh had come to make terms; they must be liberal.

"Useless because you are going to make a proposal," said Bellshaw.

"I have a proposal to make?"

"How much will you give me out of the sweep?"

"Nothing," was the unexpected answer.

Bellshaw flared up again, swore roundly, talked fast and furiously, all to no purpose. Leigh sat immovable, lit a cigar and waited until he was exhausted.

"Would you like to hear my proposition?" asked Glen calmly.

"Not if it doesn't refer to sweep money."

"You'd better, for your own sake. It's rather important to you," said Glen.

"Nothing you have to say, outside the matter at issue, can interest me," returned Bellshaw.

Glen smiled at him. It was the most irritating thing he could do.

"I shall sit here until you listen to what I have to say," he said.

His manner was determined. He looked stubborn, and was more than a match for Craig Bellshaw, as far as strength went. He got up and locked the door, putting the key in his pocket.

"What I have to say you would not like anyone to hear. Besides I don't want you to bolt out of the room."

"Get along with it then," growled Bellshaw, "but I assure you beforehand you are wasting your time."

"Oh no, I am not. You'll say so when I've done. You'll consider it rather a clever move on my part and that the time was very well occupied. It's about a woman," blurted out Glen suddenly.

Craig Bellshaw felt as though an electric current had passed through him. The remark was so unexpected, meant so many things, and he was utterly in the dark. He stared at Glen, who still smiled as he said, "I thought you'd be surprised. Do you know what became of the young woman you took away from Mintaro and left in the open to die?"

"You're raving. There never was a young woman at Mintaro," said Bellshaw hoarsely.

"Oh yes, there was. You drove her away in your buggy, emptied her out, and left her insensible while you drove away. You told me about it the night you walked in your sleep; at least all you knew. You acted well, very well indeed. You illustrated in a remarkably clear way how you attempted to throttle her. You also showed me how you were dragging her to some water hole, but thought better of it, and left her to die of hunger. I heard you speak to your horses so knew you must have taken her there in a buggy. It's a bad plan to walk in your sleep when you've a murder on your conscience," said Glen.

Bellshaw glared at him like a caged tiger.

"Murder," he hissed. "Be careful what you say."

Glen took no notice of his remark.

"Do you know what became of the woman?" he asked.

"There was no woman."

"Don't deny facts. It's a waste of breath. Doesn't Backham know there was a woman at Mintaro? Don't all your hands know?"

Bellshaw was silent. Glen was rubbing it in strong.

"There's awful evidence against you to prove she was at your place. We'll take that for granted; we'll also take it for granted you left her in the wilderness to die – you brute," said Glen, who could hardly restrain his feelings.

Bellshaw writhed, but did not speak. He waited to hear more.

"Do you know what became of the woman?"

"I tell you there was no woman."

"There's ample proof that you lie," answered Glen, "so I'll pass that. I found her in my hut when I rode back from the fence."

He gave Bellshaw a graphic account of what happened and how Jim Benny came to assist him.

Then he looked hard at Bellshaw as he placed his hands on the table and stood up, leaning over until his face was within a few inches of the squatter's.

"She died in my hut," said Glen. "You are her murderer; you can't get away from that."

Bellshaw shivered. He believed what Glen Leigh said. It was not true, but there was every justification for making the statement to punish him.

"She confessed how she came there and everything you had done to her before she died," went on Leigh. "Jim Benny knows it; Bill Bigs knows it; they were there. The evidence is strong enough, if not to hang you, to send you to penal servitude for life."

Bellshaw tried to laugh, but was thoroughly frightened. He had often wondered what had become of the woman. The story sounded probable. She might have wandered as far as Leigh's hut. During the few minutes' respite Bellshaw thought of a way to retaliate.

"You shot Joe Calder," he said.

Glen being innocent, laughed. Bellshaw must have been dull if he did not see his shot had not gone home.

"I did not. I shouldn't wonder if you had a hand in it," retorted Glen.

"He was a friend of mine."

"You'd as soon leave a shot in a friend as an enemy if he was in your way," said Glen.

"Why have you told me this silly story?"

"In the first place because I want to bring home to you that if Jim Benny, Bill Bigs and myself bring a charge against you of causing the death of this woman, you'll be in the hands of the police instead of witnessing the Melbourne Cup. In the second place if you scratch Barellan you will have no mercy shown you. We shall act at once," replied Glen.

Bellshaw saw the drift of it all. He was cornered. It was a clever move. He would have to run the horse. The evidence of three men who saw the woman die, and heard her charge against him, would be serious – too serious for him to face in public. Even if he escaped punishment he would be branded with infamy for life.

"You'll not scratch Barellan?" said Glen.

"I shall if I get no sweep money from you."

"I say you will not scratch the horse," Glen repeated.

"Supposing I do."

"Then you will be taken into custody at once on the charge I mentioned."

"And if I run him?"

"You shall be free to do what you will. Your conscience will punish you; it has done already. I saw that at Mintaro. You were afraid – a coward," said Glen.

"You will stand me a thousand out of the sweep?"

"Not a farthing."

Bellshaw would like to have shot him.

"What guarantee have I that you will be silent?" he asked.

"I give you my word," returned Glen.

"That is nothing to me."

"But it is to me, and you will have to accept it."

"I will not."

"You will run Barellan?"

"No."

"I have another witness," said Glen at a venture.

"Go on. I am amused," answered Bellshaw, fighting hard before he gave in. He must save his face by making some show of resistance.

"Lin Soo," said Glen.

The effect of the mention of this name on Bellshaw was remarkable. He gasped and seemed on the point of choking, sank back in the chair, his hands hanging down.

Leigh opened the door and went downstairs for some brandy. This revived Bellshaw and he looked round in a frightened way.

"You will run Barellan?" asked Glen.

Bellshaw murmured a faint "Yes." He was beaten.

CHAPTER XXIV

AT FLEMINGTON

There was tremendous excitement in Melbourne on the eve of the Cup. The Victoria Club was thronged, a stream of people constantly passing up and down the stairs on to Bourke Street. On the pavement the crowd was dense, and it was difficult to push along. Many of the tobacconists' shops were tenanted by bookmakers and heavy wagers were recorded in them. Nick Gerard was busy at the Club; he had a heavy book on the race, and had laid the favourite, Roland, the winner of the Caulfield Cup, heavily. Barellan was one of his best horses; he had not laid much against him. Ivor Hadwin gave him a glowing account of his candidate. On Monday morning Glen relieved the trainer's mind by telling him he need have no doubt about Bellshaw running the horse.

"Then you must have laid him a lump out of the sweep," said the trainer.

"Not a penny," answered Leigh.

"Then how did you work it?" asked the trainer amazed.

"I managed it after a tussle, but I can't tell you how," replied Glen.

Wagering was fast and furious at the Club. Barellan's lameness disappeared as if by magic and there were many people who thought the whole thing a fake, and of course blamed Bellshaw. He was unpopular, and made no secret that he ran his horses as he liked, without consideration for anyone. When he came into the Club he was not greeted heartily as a popular owner would have been. Hardly anyone spoke to him until one or two bookmakers asked him if he wished to back his horse.

Nick Gerard crossed over the room.

"I suppose you've persuaded Leigh to give you some of the sweep money?" he said.

"Not a fraction. It's a mean, dirty action on his part, but as the horse is so well backed I shall run him," replied Bellshaw.

"It's something out of the common for you to consider backers," said Nick. "Have you got all your money on?"

"All I want. If he hadn't gone lame I'd have had more on; it's not worth the risk now."

The street was crowded until midnight, when the bulk of the people wended their way homewards.

Jerry Makeshift and Tom Roslyn walked down Collins Street together, discussing the chances of the probable runners in the Cup.

"What have you sent on as your final?" asked Jerry.

"Barellan and Roland," answered Tom.

"Why Barellan?"

"I rather fancy him. I saw him this morning. Hadwin told me the horse was all right again, and that the lameness disappeared as suddenly as it came."

"Still it can't have improved his chance for the Cup," said Jerry. "I wonder how Leigh induced him to run the horse. He says he hasn't laid him anything out of the sweep."

"I'm glad of it. There's too much fleecing goes on. When a man is lucky enough to draw a horse it's hard lines he should be robbed out of a lot of it."

"It's been the practice for so long, owners appear to regard it as a right," said Jerry.

"It's just as well they should find out it is not," replied Tom.

The two friends parted and Jerry went on to the Federal.

Next morning it was beautifully fine, and from an early hour huge crowds wended their way to Flemington. Towards noon Spencer Street Station was crammed. All the specials were full.

There is no finer racing picture in the world than Flemington on Cup Day. Even Royal Ascot pales before it in many respects. It is the luxury of racing in comfort that makes Flemington, and most Australian courses, attractive. There is room for everybody; there is no jostling or overcrowding, and the cost is moderate. Everything is done to enhance the pleasure of the public, who are not treated with the scant courtesy meted out to them grudgingly in England.

The lawn and stand were a grand sight before racing commenced. The hill at the back, overlooking the stand, was a mass of people, yet there was ample room to move about. The beds on the lawn were gay with brilliant-hued flowers. The grass was splendidly green; there was no dust or dirt, no fear of new and wondrously devised ladies' costumes being damaged in an hour. Despite the heat, it was one of November's hottest days, people looked cool. There was plenty of shade. Cosy tables for luncheon parties were laid beneath arbours of vines, whose leaves afforded a refreshing covering. Here scores of parties chatted and made merry, talking over the prospects of the horses in the great race of the year. Coaches, with fine teams, came driving in. There were no motor cars, and the scene was far more picturesque without them. On the flat the huge crowd assembled. It was evident there would be a record attendance.

The Governor and his Lady arrived and were greeted with rousing cheers as they stepped from their carriage and walked across the lawn to the reserved box on the grand stand.

The bookmakers, located between the lawn and the paddock, were not cooped up in an iron cage like animals in a zoological collection. Wagering could be done in comfort. There was no fighting to get money, no scrambling. Everything was decent and in order.

Nick Gerard stood with his back to the rails, against the stewards' and official enclosure and his clerks were seldom still. The leviathan had a big book, and could afford to lay any horse asked for, but a casual observer might have noticed he was in no particular hurry to put Barellan's name down. He laid against Roland whenever he got a chance, but the horse was so heavily backed he came down to five to one before the first race was decided.

A whole string of horses figured in the betting, and there were thirty-one runners in the field, or would be if all started.

Isaac, the winner of the Derby on the previous Saturday, had plenty of friends. He was ridden by Nicholl in that race, and the jockey considered he had an excellent chance.

He had been asked to ride him in the Cup, but had to decline because he was engaged for Barellan.

Luke Nicholl was conscientious. He liked the trainer of Barellan, and since he had known Glen Leigh he had been on very friendly terms with him. Barellan's temporary lameness came as a blow to the jockey, as he might have had the mount on any horse in the race he could do the weight for.

Ivor Hadwin, however, had somewhat relieved his mind when he told him Barellan moved in his accustomed style, and he had but little fear about his lasting out the race.

"You'll ride him carefully," he said. "No need to tell you that. Nurse him until you are well in the straight; then let him come along as fast as you like. I got a clever man to bind his hoof. It's a bit brittle, and he'll run in bandages, but take my word for it, whatever beats him will win. I fear nothing, Luke."

This was reassuring and Nicholl looked like not only riding the Derby and Cup winners but also landing his first Melbourne Cup. For the leading jockey he had had bad luck in the race, having been placed half a dozen times. He could never quite get home. He hoped Barellan would accomplish that for him.

As he went into the paddock he encountered Glen Leigh.

"I hope you'll win," said Glen. "It means a lot to me, as you know. If Barellan gets home you shall have five hundred."

Luke thanked him, and said he'd do his best, telling him what Hadwin said.

"That sounds all right," returned Glen smiling, "let's hope he's hit the mark."

"You'd better have a bit on my mount in this race," said the jockey. It was the Railway Handicap, six furlongs, fifteen runners.

"What are you on?" asked Glen.

"Pioneer," replied Luke. "There he is. I must hurry up."

Glen turned back into the ring, and walked to Gerard.

"What price Pioneer?" he asked.

Nick looked at him and smiled.

"Eight to one," he answered.

"Eight fivers," said Glen, handing him a note.

There was a few minutes' slackness and Gerard said, "What makes you fancy Pioneer?"

"Nicholl's riding him. He told me to have a bit on."

"His luck's in," said Nick, who sent one of his clerks to put fifty on Luke's mount.

Glen Leigh met Bill Bigs and induced him to back Pioneer, also Jim Benny, and they went on the stand to see the race.

Many people knew Glen Leigh as the daring rider in the Buckjumping Show; and he was a tall, athletic, handsome man. Many bright eyes were levelled at him as he moved about.

"What's Pioneer's colours?" asked Bill.

Glen looked at his race book.

"White, black cap," he said.

He had no sooner spoken than the horses were off, racing up the straight at top speed. It was a regular Newmarket Handicap on a small scale.

Soon after crossing the tan the white jacket came to the front.

"That's Pioneer!" exclaimed Bill.

"He's in front and he'll stop there," said a man behind him.

"I hope he does."

"So do I. He's a speedy horse, and good enough for a Newmarket."

Pioneer came sailing along past the stands and turned out an easy winner by three lengths, at which there was much jubilation among the three friends.

"I shall put my winnings on Barellan," said Bill.

"So shall I," said Jim.

"I'll keep mine in my pocket," said Glen.

"You've got a big stake going. By Jove, it will be a go if you win first prize in the sweep; you'll be a cut above us poor beggars then," Bill remarked.

"It won't make the slightest difference that way," replied Glen smiling.

"I know that, old man. I was only chaffing," laughed Bill. "I suppose if anyone accepts Gerard's challenge you'll ride, even if Barellan wins?"

"Certainly. I promised him," Glen answered.

"Let us go into the paddock, and have a look at some of the Cup horses," said Jim, and they walked along the lawn in that direction.

CHAPTER XXV

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."