The Sweep Winner

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.

"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.