The Sweep Winner

CHAPTER VII
THE FACE IN THE WATER

"I'm not superstitious," said Bill, "but that settles it; she said 'come' as plainly as she could, although she's fast asleep. I can't get over that. I'll sell out to Backham, and join you. We'll make things gee in Sydney, I reckon."

They were delighted at this decision, for they knew Bigs was a good man of business, who had his head screwed on right, and if there was anything to be made he'd be on to it straight.

"She'll want some clothes. She can't go in those things," said Glen.

"I'll fix that up. I can get sufficient garments in Boonara for her to reach Sydney in and there's no occasion for her to arrive like the Queen of Sheba," Bill replied.

They laughed. Things were more cheerful. The decision to abandon the fence livened them up.

When Bill left he promised to return in a week, and see how the woman was progressing.

"It'll be longer than that before we can travel with her," he said.

Away in Sydney, the great city, vast even in those days, life was going on very differently from the solitudes round Boonara. There were hundreds, nay, thousands, of people in that beautiful city who had never heard of Boonara, or knew there were such men as the keepers of the fence. As far as the majority of the inhabitants were concerned such men as Glen Leigh, Jim Benny, and Bill Bigs, might not have existed. Had the story of the woman in the hut been told it would have been laughed to scorn, and counted impossible, but there is nothing impossible in the world, however improbable it may seem.

Sydney was pulsating with life in this year of grace 18 – . There is no occasion to be exact. It might partially spoil matters, and what's a year or two to a story, so long as the interest is maintained, and the characters are living beings? Late in the nineteenth century Sydney flourished exceedingly. The last twenty years of that remarkable era saw it going ahead by leaps and bounds, and it has been growing ever since until men who left it years ago, and have revisited it, can hardly recognise the place. Long may it flourish, most beautiful of many beautiful cities!

There was a crowd in Pitt Street, outside Tattersalls, and over the way at the marble bar streams of people were passing in and out, for it was hot, and there were many parched throats. Moreover, it had been the winding up day of the A.J.C. Meeting at Randwick, and every favourite had got home, much to the disgust of the bookmakers.

It was ten at night and sultry; there was no air to speak of. The keepers of the fence would have thought it cool, but they were used to being burnt up and parched, and lived in a land where water was often flavoured with the taste of dead things, and not cooled with ice and fragrant with lemon. Not one of this crowd knew what took place on the border line of glittering wire. Boonara was as far off as, and more strange than, Timbuctoo.

Not one of this crowd? Stay. There was one – probably the only one – who knew all about it, and he stood smoking a cigar and chatting to a man outside a tobacconist's shop, not far from the Club on the opposite side of the road. He was a man nearly six feet high, with black hair and eyebrows, and a sunburnt face. Not a pleasant face, but strong, determined, with a rather cruel mouth and dark cat-like eyes; a man dangerous both to friend and enemy if he willed. He was well-dressed, but somewhat carelessly; he had a slouch hat, dark grey clothes, and his tie was awry. He stood with his legs slightly apart, gesticulating with one hand as he talked. The man to whom he was speaking was the leviathan of the Australian turf, who had made his position by a mixture of shrewd business qualities and bold gambling, who betted in thousands, and took "knocks" that would have sent a less plucky man out of the ring. But he always came up smiling, and his luck was proverbial. He had been known to play hazards for twelve hours at a stretch and never have a hand tremble when he lost thousands. He was ostensibly a dealer in choice cigars, etc., in fact in all the paraphernalia of a tobacconist's, and it was his shop they had just come out of as they stood talking on the pavement. He was not so tall as his companion, and had a much more kindly face. He was popular because he was cheerful and honest, and the little backer could always get a point over the odds from him.

The taller man was Craig Bellshaw, of Mintaro Station. The bookmaker was Nicholas Gerard, always called Nick by everybody.

Craig Bellshaw was, as before mentioned, probably the only man who knew there were such men as the keepers of the fence, who had heard of Boonara, and was acquainted with the vast solitudes in the West. He was a wealthy man, and could afford to leave Mintaro to the men he employed, and come to Sydney in search of pleasure. When he was away he still had his grip on his place, as some of his hands found to their cost. They put it down to the spying of Garry Backham, the overseer.

Craig Bellshaw was a man of about fifty years of age, but did not look it. He had led a hardy life, and been successful. He owned miles upon miles of land, thousands of cattle, and his sheep ran into hundreds of thousands. Horses he had in abundance; how many he had no idea. He claimed all within reach of his land round Mintaro district, but never missed a dozen when they were taken. It pleased him to say they were his, so he did not grumble when Boonara men, and fencers, claimed a few. Bellshaw was difficult to understand, but one thing was certain: once he got his hold on a thing, he seldom let go.

He was a bachelor, but had a house in Sydney which cost him a considerable sum to keep up; he found it handy when he came to town. He owned racehorses, and his trainer was Ivor Hadwin, who had stables on the hill at Randwick. Hadwin was completely under Bellshaw's thumb, and was heavily in his debt. It was owing to pecuniary difficulties that he became connected with him. This was often the case with Craig Bellshaw. For once in a way the A.J.C. Meeting proved successful to the stable, and Bellshaw's horses had won four races, one on each day; all were heavily backed, and the bulk of the money had either been laid by Nick Gerard, or he had worked the commission. This was the subject of their conversation, and as they talked in the flare of the gaslights and the shops, many people turned to look at them, for both were well-known figures in the sporting world.

"Yes, Nick, I've had a pretty good meeting," said Craig.

Nick Gerard smiled.

"I should say you had. There are several thousands to your credit," he rejoined.

"What do you think of the dark bay – the fellow that won to-day?"

"Barellan? Oh, he's all right. A pretty fair horse I should say."

"Yes, he is, a good deal better than you think."

"Is he? I've seen him at work on the track. He won to-day, but I don't think he's the best you've got."

"No? Which is?"

"Flash."

Bellshaw smiled in his peculiar way as he said, "Perhaps he's a better track horse, but I'm sure Barellan is the better horse in a race, especially over a distance."

"He may be. When are you going back West?"

"Not yet. I'm sick of it. We've had such a long dry spell, but now we've had rain, a real soaker. We wanted it badly enough."

"It must be terrible when you have no rain for months."

"It is. You're lucky to be here always."

"Why don't you give it up now you've made your pile?"

"Throw it up? I can't afford it. You don't know what's hanging to Mintaro."

"A good deal, no doubt, but you're a single man, with no one dependent on you. It seems to me you're wasting your time. You've worked hard enough," argued Nick.

"So I have, but I couldn't live in Sydney always, any more than I could at Mintaro."

They talked for some little time. Eventually Gerard bade him good night and went over to Tattersalls. The squatter walked along Pitt Street, then hailing a cab drove to Surrey Hills. He called at a house, remained some time, then drove to Circular Quay, catching the last boat to Manley. It was beautiful on the harbour; a cool breeze was blowing from the heads. The moon shone, and as he leaned over the side he saw his face reflected in the water. This was peculiar. He did not remember having seen such a thing before. As he looked he clutched the rail with both hands, turned pale, and gasped. Reflected beside his face was another face, that of a young woman – he had not noticed a lady standing a short distance away from him who was also looking over the side of the boat.

He staggered away and went to the fore part of the steamer, where there was more breeze, and sat down. The perspiration broke out all over him. He felt faint for the first time in his life.

"I saw it. I'm sure of it, and it was like her face. I'm a fool to be frightened at a shadow on the water," and he laughed harshly, a mirthless sound.

CHAPTER VIII
WAYS AND MEANS

Three men and a woman arrived in Sydney by the mail train from Bourke; there were not many passengers, and they attracted some attention. It was evident they came from out back, their appearance denoted it; they were clothed in a rough country style. They were Glen Leigh, Jim Benny, Bill Bigs, and the woman. They had very little luggage; it was contained in a couple of bundles, "swags," that could be strapped on the back, slung over a shoulder, or carried in the hand. Many people in Sydney have seen the once familiar figure of a tall Queensland millionaire walking along George Street with a similar outfit. In appearance Glen Leigh was not unlike him, only younger.

A porter watched them as they walked out of the station. They all seemed solicitous about the woman. The man understood the three, the female he was puzzled about.

"They can't have picked her up coming in the train. She belongs to one of them. I wonder which. The tall chap, perhaps. He's a big 'un; I fancy I've seen him before. I wonder where they're bound for?"

The porter's attention was claimed and he forgot all about them.

"There's a coffee place in Lower George Street that will do us for a time," said Glen, "till we've had a look round."

The woman stared about her wonderingly. If she had ever been in a large city it was evident she had forgotten all about it.

Since her illness, which was not yet shaken off, she had developed in body and mind, although as regards the latter it was to a great extent blank as to the past. She had some colour in her cheeks. There were signs that she would be pretty, with a good figure, and be an attractive woman.

She made no remarks as Glen and Jim walked on either side of her, Bigs following behind with the larger bundle. Several people turned to look at them as they went along.

The coffee house was large, but unpretentious, the locality being none of the best. It was at the Circular Quay end of George Street, and Chinamen's shops and dens abounded – dull dirty places, with a few empty tea chests in the windows, and bits of paper with Chinese characters scrawled, or printed on, in various colours, like cracker coverings on a table after a riotous Boxing Day dinner. In several of the shop doorways Chinamen leaned against the posts, seldom moving when a customer pushed by them into the shop, bent on playing fan tan, or smoking opium.

"The Chinkies might have been propped up there since I was here last, and that's a few years ago," laughed Bigs.

"Rotten lot," said Jim.

"Most of 'em. I've met one or two decent pigtails out West," Bill answered.

When the woman caught sight of the Chinaman it had a most peculiar effect upon her. She shrank close to Glen, pushing him on to the roadway, and almost slipping down herself. He saw by her face that she was terrified, and followed the direction of her glance. It was fixed on a fat Chinaman standing in his shop door looking across at them. He was not exactly repulsive, but he was sleek and oily. His face shone, his cheeks hung low, he had a double chin, and his eyes were like nuts fixed in slits.

"There's nothing to be afraid of," said Glen. "If he is a nasty-looking beggar I daresay he's harmless."

Jim and Bill noticed her agitation and scowled at the Chinaman, who returned the challenge with a broad grin, showing his yellow teeth.

She trembled violently. Her hand shook as it clasped Glen's arm with a tight squeeze. He hurried her on; she was quite willing. It was not until they were inside the coffee house that she recovered.

"You don't like the Chinamen?" asked Glen.

"I hate them. They frighten me," she said.

I wonder why? thought Glen, as a maid came to show her her room.

She looked back and asked, "Where is your room?"

"I don't know yet," returned Glen.

"Please don't go far away from me. Please don't."

"All right," replied Glen. "I'll see to that."

The maid smiled, but Glen's scowl quickly frightened it away.

"We'll have to fix something up," he said. "She'd better be somebody's sister. I'm too old; you take it on, Jim."

"Yes, Jim's most suitable. He's not much older – a matter of three or four years," agreed Bill.

"His sister!"

Jim didn't like the relationship. Once it was established it might be difficult to induce her to change the feeling. He must accept, however; there was no excuse for not doing so.

"Very well, that's settled. I'll tell her about it," went on Glen. "Try and explain to her, but she's as simple as a child, and won't understand the reason for it."

She was tired. The maid, who regarded her curiously, saw she was weak, and asked her if she had been ill. She said she had been very ill, for a long time, and she wanted rest.

"Lie down on the bed. Let me take your boots on. I'll draw the curtain round, and you can have a sleep. It will do you good. Have you travelled far?"

"From Bourke."

"Where's that?"

"In the West. Some hundreds of miles away."

This excited the maid's compassion. She was a good-natured kind girl, but fond of admiration, and she had seen a great deal of life since she came out as an emigrant from the old country.

"I'll be back in a minute," she said as she left the room. She went to ask if she could remain with her for a short time, and receiving a reply in the affirmative returned, after telling Glen she had persuaded her to rest.

"She's my friend's sister," and he pointed to Jim. "She's been very ill; take care of her."

"I'll look after her. I'm sorry I smiled as I did, but – "

"But what?" asked Glen.

"Oh, nothing. We see some queer folks here sometimes," she said.

"I daresay you do," replied Glen, "but we're all right. You needn't be afraid of any of us."

"I'm not," she retorted, unable to resist laughing at him.

"That girl's better than I thought," he remarked when she had gone.

"They often are, if you'll only take time to find it out," said Bill.

"Where's Jim?"

"He must have just gone out. I don't think he liked the sister business."

"Why not?" Glen asked, surprised.

"That remains to be seen," Bill answered, and the remark made Glen thoughtful.

Jim came in again and they had a council of ways and means.

Bill Bigs had a considerable sum of money. He had not half-poisoned the inhabitants of Boonara, and the keepers of the fence, and others, without making a handsome profit on his concoctions. His dealings in hay and provender of various kinds had been another source of income. Occasional loans, at heavy risks, and corresponding interest, had also brought grist to the mill.

The sale of his shanty to Garry Backham brought him in several hundred pounds, about twice the amount he valued it at, and he had not yet recovered from the surprise at his good luck, or at the fact that Garry had found the ready money in a lump sum. Altogether he had a few thousands at his back.

Glen Leigh had more money than the other two would have thought possible. He had it stowed away in a bank in Sydney, where it had remained, and been added to, ever since he had been on the fence.

Jim Benny had a few pounds which he carried with him.

"I'll look round," said Bill. "I'm the business man. I reckon I'd best stick to my own line and buy a 'house' if I can find a decent one at a fair price."

"It's about the best thing you can do," agreed Glen.

"And if I succeed, you two, and the girl, must put up with me until you find work," went on Bill.

Glen laughed.

"What sort of work?" he asked.

"That's a bit difficult, but two fellows who ride like you can ought to find some sort of occupation. Start a buckjumping show. Give 'em a taste of your quality; that's the game; I've hit on a little gold mine. We can get horses, and it won't cost a deal to run it."

"You mean have a real genuine show of buckjumping, and riding, in Sydney, and other places?" Glen queried.

"Yes, that's the idea."

"How much would it cost to start it?"

"A few hundreds. I'll find the money."

"I must have a share in it, and we'll let Jim come in. He can take it out in hard work," said Glen smiling.

"I'm willing to do anything you wish," Jim declared.

"If I manage to make the necessary arrangements," said Bill, "you'll have to go and find the horses, the very worst buckers you can get. There must be no faking about it."

"There'll be none where I am concerned," replied Glen, "I'll pick up some rough 'uns, you may depend on that, I say, Bill, I believe you've hit on the right thing."

"I'm sure I have. You're the best rider I ever saw sit a horse," said Bill.

CHAPTER IX
THE CHINAMAN'S SHOP

Bill Bigs met a good many Chinamen, and had dealings with them, always finding them keen business fellows, moderately honest, though some were arrant rogues.

He went out of the coffee house to look round, and saw the fat Chinaman still standing in his doorway like a statue, as though he had not moved since they saw him before entering the house.

The name on the shop was Lin Soo. Probably this was the name of the man at the door; at any rate something prompted Bill to cross the road and look in at the shop window. He saw three tea chests, which he guessed were empty, a couple of Chinese bowls, a vase with strange hideous dragons painted or burnt on, an ivory-handled stick, a hat, a pile of chop-sticks, a bundle of red papers, and a cat slumbering serenely among the miscellaneous collection.

"Is the cat for sale?" he asked the man.

The Chinaman smiled.

"Not for sale. A good cat; he catchee mice, cockroaches."

"I didn't know there were any mice here."

"He catchee them if they were here," grinned the man.

"Your name is Lin Soo?"

The Chinaman nodded.

"You speak very good English," said Bill.

"Been in Sydney years," he replied.

"And made a heap of money," said Bill.

"No. Chinaman no chance with the white man," said Lin solemnly.

Bill laughed.

"You yellow heathen, I know better than that. Are you a tea dealer?"

Lin Soo nodded; it was a habit, and when he did so his cheeks flapped and his eyelids fell up and down like trap doors.

"Sell me half a pound of good tea," said Bill.

Lin Soo turned and walked into the shop. Bill followed. He did not want any tea, and Lin Soo knew it.

The Chinaman went behind the counter, leaning on it with his elbows.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Tea."

Lin Soo grunted.

"You no fool," he said.

Bill laughed.

"How do you know?"

"You want no tea."

"What do I want?"

Lin Soo's head wagged again.

"Guess," said Bill.

"Give it up," replied Lin.

"Why did you leer at the girl we had with us? You frightened her, you oily beast," said Bill.

Lin Soo started back. This was evidently unexpected, and Bill was a formidable fellow to tackle.

Lin Soo protested he had not stared at her. Lots of silly women were frightened at Chinamen – why he didn't know. They had no cause to be.

"They have every cause," said Bill. "Chinamen have ruined many white women. Some of you yellow dogs buy and sell our girls, and trade them to human beasts, who disgrace their colour. They're worse than you fellows."

"Much worse," agreed Lin. "You know about it?"

"About what?"

"Trading in white girls."

"Yes, you scoundrel. I expect you've been at it."

Lin Soo protested. He was a good Chinaman, – not one of that sort.

Bill noticed the leer in his eyes, and concluded he was a deep-dyed rogue.

"Have you ever been out West?" he asked out of curiosity.

Lin Soo said he had. A few years ago he had business in Bourke.

Bill became interested. What took him to Bourke?

Dealings with a big man, a man of money. He did not live at Bourke, but he met him, Lin Soo, there.

"What sort of dealings?" queried Bill.

Lin Soo would not disclose them.

Bill questioned him for some time, and discovered that he might smoke opium there if he wished; also that he might gamble for a considerable sum if he so desired.

He left the shop, wondering what had induced him to waste his time there.

Lin Soo watched him go up the street, scowled after him, called him bad names and cursed him in some horrible guttural way.

"You sneaking round me," he said. "Better take care. Lin Soo stand no fool play. Me stare at white woman! Why not? Me had dealings with many white women. Business in Bourke with what you call squatter and white woman. Tell him? Not muchy!"

Bill walked into Pitt Street. When he came to the corner of Market Street he stopped and stared.

That looks uncommonly like Craig Bellshaw, he thought.

The man he had seen turned round and came towards him. It was Bellshaw. He saw Bill Bigs and recognised him.

"You here, Bigs? What brings you to Sydney?"

"I've sold out."

"Have you? Tired of Boonara, eh?"

"It's hardly a paradise as you know, and I got a good price for the place, so I thought I'd quit."

"I expect you've knocked up a nice little pile out of the natives, the fencers, and my men, shearers, and so on. I had a nip or two at your shanty. I can taste it yet. What horrible stuff you sold," said Craig.

"No worse than others sell. No worse than the man who bought me out will sell."

"Who bought you out?"

"Don't you know?"

"How should I?"

"Garry Backham. He paid cash down, too. I wonder where he came by it? I don't suppose you've been over liberal with him," said Bill. He watched Bellshaw as he spoke, and the squatter returned his glance without a flicker.

"Garry's bought you out? I wondered why he wanted to leave me," replied Bellshaw.

He's lying, thought Bill, and wondered why.

"He'll not find it all profit," said Bill.

Bellshaw laughed.

"I don't expect he will," he agreed. "Who's there now looking after the place?"

"He is."

"You mean he's left Mintaro and gone to Boonara?"

"That's about it. He was in the house when I came away."

"The scoundrel. He's neglected my interests. He shall pay for it. He'd no business to leave Mintaro until I returned."

"I expect Mintaro will be all right. You've plenty of hands there."

Bellshaw laughed again.

"I daresay they'll pull through somehow," he said.

When Craig Bellshaw left him Bill went back to the coffee house, and told them he had seen him.

"Did he say when he was returning?" asked Glen. "I don't want to meet him. He's not my kind. Besides he might try and make it nasty over leaving the fence. He's one of that sort."

"He's sure to be going back soon. He's been here some time I fancy. I wonder why he tried to make me believe he knew nothing about Garry Backham taking my place? It's all bunkum. He knew right enough, but he must have some reason for trying to hide it," said Bill.

"If all I've heard about Mintaro is correct there are some queer goings on at times. I've never been there, but one of the fellows on the fence, Abe Carew, was employed by him for a long time. He offended Bellshaw, who kicked him out, and he was very sore about it. He gave him a nice character. I didn't believe it all, of course, but no doubt a lot of it's true," Glen remarked.

"Bellshaw's one of those queer sorts, you never know what they are up to, never know when you've got 'em. He's been in my place and said things I knew were lies, and he seemed to have no reason for it, but he must have had," said Bill.

"Some fellows lie for the sake of lying," Glen answered.

The woman slept all night until late next morning. When she came into the large room Glen was the only one in it. She went straight up to him, holding out both hands. When he took them she kissed him. The hot blood surged in his veins. Was she always going to do this? He was glad no one saw it.

"You feel much better?" he asked when he had recovered his equanimity.

"Almost well. Sleep is wonderful. Are we going to live here?" she returned.

"No. This is a sort of hotel. We are staying here until we find a home."

"Why did we leave home?" she asked.

"It was impossible to stay there; there was only one room in the hut."

"Wasn't it always like that?" she asked as though trying to recall something.

"No, not always. Can't you remember?"

"Remember – what?"

"Where you came from when you came to the hut."

She laughed.

"How funny you are. You know I always lived there."

"With me, and Jim, and Bill?" he asked.

She seemed puzzled.

"It must have been so, and yet – " she put her hand to her head.

He watched her. Would she remember, or would he have to wait? That it would all come back to her some day he was certain, and then —

She was at the window, looking into the street. Lin Soo's shop was nearly opposite, but he was not visible.

A dark man walked rapidly along, and was about to enter Lin Soo's when a cab horse slipped and fell. This attracted his attention. He turned round with the intention of going to assist the driver, but the horse struggled to his feet unaided.

As the man looked across the road the woman at the window gave a faint cry. Glen was at her side in a moment.

"What is it?" he asked.

"That man, the dark man, looking this way. I've seen him before. Who is he? Do you know?" she said in an agitated voice.

It was Craig Bellshaw.