Back To Billabong - Mary Grant Bruce
"There's the racecourse," he said.
"Racecourse!" Tommy ejaculated. "But it just looks like an ordinary
paddock."
"That's all it is," said Jim, laughing. "You didn't expect a grand-stand
and a lawn, did you? Cunjee is very proud of itself for having a turf
club at all, and nobody minds anything as long as they get an occasional
glimpse of the horses."
"But where do they run?"
"Oh, the track goes in and out among the trees. There's some talk of
clearing it before the next meeting by means of a working bee. But
they won't worry if it doesn't get done--every one will come and have a
picnic just the same. You see, there are only two days in the year when
a bush place can really let itself go--Show day and Race day. Show
day is more serious and business-like, but Race day is a really
light-hearted affair, and the horses don't matter to most of the
people."
They turned into a gate where two men were busily collecting shillings
and keeping a wary eye lest foot passengers should dodge in through the
fence without paying. There were no buildings at all in the bush paddock
in which they found themselves. It lay before them, flat, save for
a rise towards the southern boundary, where already the crowd was
thickening, and sparsely timbered. As they cantered across it they came
to a rough track, marked out more or less effectively by pink calico
flags nailed to the trees.
"That's the racing track," Wally said. "Let's ride round it, and we'll
have a faint idea of what the horses are doing later on."
They turned along the track, where the grass had been worn by horses
training for the races during the few weeks preceding the great day. The
trees had been cleared from it, so that it was good going. In shape it
was roughly circular, with an occasional dint or bulge where a big red
gum had been too tough a proposition to clear, and the track had had to
swing aside to avoid it--a practice which must, as Jim remarked, make
interesting moments in riding a race, if the field were larger than
usual and the pace at all hot. Presently they emerged from the timber
and came into the straight run that marked the finish--running along the
foot of the southern rise, so that, whatever happened in the mysterious
moments in the earlier parts of a race, the end was within full view of
the crowd. The winning-post was a sawed-off sapling, painted half-black
and half-white; opposite to it was the judge's box, a huge log which
made a natural grand-stand, capable of accommodating the racing
committee as well. Behind, a rough wire fence enclosed a small
space known as the saddling paddock. The crowd picked out its own
accommodation--it was necessary to come early if you wanted a good
place on the rise. Already it was dotted with picnic parties, preparing
luncheon, and a procession of men and boys, bearing teapots and billies,
came and went about a huge copper, steaming over a fire, where the
racing club dispensed hot water free of charge, a generosity chiefly
intended to prevent the casual lighting of fires by the picnickers.
All over the paddock people were hastening through the business of the
midday meal; the men anxious to get it over before the real excitement
of the day began with the racing, the women equally keen to feed their
hungry belongings and then settle down to a comfortable gossip with
friends perhaps only seen once or twice in the twelve months. Children
tore about wildly, got in the way of buggies and motors, climbed trees
and clustered thickly round any horse suspected of taking part in
the racing. More than one candidate for a race appeared on the course
drawing a jinker; and, being released from the shafts, was being
vigorously groomed by his shirt-sleeved owner.
"There's an awful lot to see!" ejaculated Tommy, gazing about her.
"That is if you've eyes," Jim said. "But most of it can be seen on foot,
so I vote Wally and Bob and I take the horses and tie them up while
there's still a decent patch of shade left for them to stand in--every
tree in the paddock will have horses tied to it before long. Do you know
where Evans was to leave the buggy, Dad?"
"Yes--it's under a tree over there," said his father, nodding towards a
bushy clump of wattles. "I told him to pick out a good shady place for
lunch. We'll go on and get ready, boys. I'll take the teapot for hot
water."
"Not you!" said Jim. "We'll be back in a few minutes and can easily get
it. Just help the girls with the things, Dad, and we'll get lunch over;
I'm as hungry as a hawk."
"I'm not hungry," said Norah. "But I want, oh! gallons of tea."
Tea seemed the main requirement of everybody. It was almost too hot to
eat, even in the deep shade of the wattles. The boys, taught by the war
to feed wherever and whenever possible, did some justice to Brownie's
hamper; but Mr. Linton soon drew aside and lit his pipe at a little
distance, while Tommy and Norah nibbled tomato and lettuce sandwiches,
kept fresh and cool by being packed in huge nasturtium leaves, and drank
many cups of tea. Then they lay under the trees until a bell, ringing
from the saddling paddock, hinted that the first race was at hand. There
was a surge of people towards the rise.
"Come on," Jim said, jumping up. "Help me to stow these things in the
buggy, Wally--we'll want most of them for afternoon tea later on. Then
we might as well go and see the fun. You girls rested?"
They were, they declared; and presently they set off towards the rise.
Already the horses were appearing on the track, most of the jockeys
wearing silk jackets and caps, although a few were content with doffing
coat and waistcoat, and riding in blue and pink shirts--occasionally,
but not always, complete with collar and tie. The horses were a mixed
lot; some bore traces of birth and breeding, but the majority were just
grass-fed horses from the neighbouring farms and stations, groomed and
polished in a way that only happened to them once a year. The well-bred
performers were handicapped with heavy weights, while the others had
been let off lightly, so that all had a chance.
"Billabong has a horse running to-day--did you know?" Jim inquired.
"No!" Tommy looked up, dimpling with interest. "But how exciting, Jim.
Is it yours?"
"No." Jim shook his head. "I won't enter a horse if I can't ride him
myself, and of course I'm too heavy. He belongs to the station, but he's
always looked upon as Murty's, and black Billy's going to ride him. He's
in the Hurdle Race."
"Do you think he has any chance?"
"Well, he can gallop and jump all right," Jim said. "But he hasn't had
much training, and whether he'll jump in company is open to doubt. But
I don't think he'll disgrace us. You've seen Murty riding him--a big
chestnut with a white blaze."
"Oh, yes--he calls him Shannon, doesn't he?" said Tommy. "I saw him jump
three fences on him last time we were out mustering with your people.
He's a beauty, Jim."
"Yes, he's pretty good. Murty thinks he's better than Garryowen, but I
don't," Jim observed.
"If the Archangel Gabriel turned into a horse you wouldn't think he was
up to Garryowen!" said Wally.
"No, and he probably wouldn't be," said Jim, laughing. "If you begin
life as an archangel, how would you settle down to being a horse after?"
"I suppose it needs practice," Wally admitted. "Look out--here they
come!"
The horses were coming down the straight in their preliminary canter,
and the crowd abandoned the business of picnicking and turned its
attention to the first race. The riders, mostly local boys, looked
desperately serious, and, as they pulled up after their canter, and
turning, trotted slowly back past the rise, shouts of warning and
encouragement and instruction came to them--from the owners of their
mounts--which had the effect of making the boys look yet more unhappy.
A bookmaker, the sole representative of his profession, yelled steadily
from under a lightwood tree; those who were venturesome enough to do
business with him were warned solemnly by more experienced men to keep a
sharp look-out that he did not get away with their money before the end
of the day.
"That happened in Cunjee some years ago," said Mr. Linton. "A bookmaker
appeared from goodness knows where, and struck a very solid patch of bad
luck. All the district seemed to know how to pick winners that day,
and he lost solidly on every race. He plunged a bit on the fourth race,
hoping to get his money back; but that was worse still, and when he
saw the favourite winning, he knew he had no hope of settling up. So he
quietly collected his horse, which he had tied up in a convenient
place, in case it was wanted in a hurry, and made tracks before the race
finished."
"What happened to him?" asked Bob.
Mr. Linton chuckled.
"Well, he added considerably to the excitement of the day. Some one
saw him going, and passed the word round, and every man to whom he owed
money--and they were many--ran for his horse and went after him. He had
a good start, and no one knew what road he would take, so it was quite
a cheery hunt. I think it was Dave Boone who tracked him at last, and he
paused at a cross-roads, and coo-eed steadily until he had a number
of followers. Then they set sail after the poor bookie, and caught
him about seven or eight miles away. They found he had practically no
money--not nearly enough to divide up; so they took what he had and
presented it to the Cunjee Hospital, and finished up the day happily by
tarring and feathering the bookie, and riding him on a fence rail round
Cunjee that night!"
"What do your police do in a case like that?" Bob asked.
"Well, there's only one policeman in Cunjee, and, being a wise man, he
went to the concert, and probably enjoyed himself very much," said Mr.
Linton, laughing.
"And what happened to the bookie?"
"Just what you might expect--the boys got sorry for him, made a
collection for him, bought him some cheap clothes--I believe they didn't
err on the side of beauty!--and shipped him off to Melbourne by the
first train in the morning. I don't think he'll try his artful dodges
on this section of the bush again; and it has made all the boys very
watchful about betting, so it wasn't a bad thing, on the whole. They
think they know all about the ways of the world now. Look, Tommy--the
horses are off! Watch through the trees, and you'll get a glimpse
presently."
The gay jackets flashed into view in a gap in the timber, and then were
lost again. Soon they came in sight once more and rounded the last
curve into the straight, amid shouts from the crowd. They came up the
straight, most of the jockeys flogging desperately, while everyone
rushed to get as near the winning-post as possible. Hats were flung in
the air and yells rose joyfully, as a Cunjee boy, riding a desperate
finish, got his horse's nose in front in the last couple of lengths and
won cleverly.
"She's excited!" said Wally, looking down at Tommy's flushed face.
"I should think so," said Tommy. "Why, it was dreadfully exciting. I'd
love to have been riding myself." At which everyone laughed extremely,
and a tall young stockman from a neighbouring station, overhearing, was
so impressed that he hovered as near as possible to Tommy for the rest
of the day.
The next event was the Hurdle Race, and interest for the Linton party
centred in the candidate described on the race-card as Mr. M. O'Toole's
Shannon. Nothing further could be done for Shannon--he was groomed until
the last hair on his tail gleamed; but black Billy, resplendent in a
bright green jacket and cap, the latter bearing an embroidered white
shamrock, became the object of advice and warning from every man from
Billabong, until anyone except Billy would probably have turned in wrath
upon the multitude of his counsellors. Billy, however, had one refuge
denied to most of his white brothers. He hardly ever spoke; and if some
reply was absolutely forced upon him, he merely murmured "Plenty!" in a
vague way, which, as Wally said, left you guessing as to his meaning.
"Yerra, lave off badgerin' the boy," said Murty at last, brushing aside
Dave Boone and Mick Shanahan, and the other Billabong enthusiasts.
"If he listens to the lot of ye anny longer he won't know whether he's
ridin' a horse or an airyplane. There's only wan insthruction to be
kapin' in your head, Billy--get to the front an' stay there. Ridin' a
waitin' race is all very well on the flat, but whin it comes to jumpin',
anything that's in front of ye is apt to turn a somersault an' bring ye
down in a heap."
"Plenty!" agreed Billy; and lit a cigarette.
"Shannon don't like anny other horse in front of him at all," went on
Murty. "He's that full of pride he never tuk kindly to bein' behind, not
since he was bruk in. He'll gallop like a machine an' lep like a deer if
he gets his head."
"I don't b'lieve you've much show, anyhow," Dave Boone said. "There's
that horse from the hotel at Mulgoa--Blazer, they call him. He's done no
end of racin', and won, too."
"Well, an' if he has, hasn't he the great weight itself to be carryin'?"
demanded Murty.
"Why, he's top weight, of course; but you're carryin' ever so much over
weight," responded Mr. Boone. "If you'd put up a boy instead of Billy,
you could be pounds lighter."
"Ah, git away with your advisin'," replied Murty. "Billy knows the
horse--an' where'd a shlip of a boy be if Shannon cleared out with him?
I'd rather carry too much weight, an' know I'd put a man up as could
hold the horse." His anxious eye fell on the girls. "Miss Norah and Miss
Tommy!--come here an' wish him luck without offerin' me any advice, or
I'll lose me life over the ould race! They have desthroyed me with all
the things they're afther tellin' me to do."
"We won't tell you a thing, Murty--except that he's looking splendid,"
Norah said, stroking Shannon's nose, to which the horse responded by
nuzzling round her pocket in search of an apple. "No, I can't give you
one, old man--I wouldn't dare. But you shall have one after the race,
whether you win or not, can't he, Murty?"
"He can so," said Murty. "Wance he's gone round that thrack he can live
on the fat of the land--an' Billy, too. It's a dale aisier to get the
condition off a horse than off Billy. No man on this earth 'ud make a
black fellow see why he shouldn't have a good blow-out whenever it came
his way. Only that Providence made him skinny by nature, he'd be fat
as a porpoise this day. I've been watchin' over his meals like a mother
with a delicate baby these three weeks back; but what hope 'ud I have
with Christmas comin' in the way? He got away on me at Christmas dinner,
an' what he didn't ate in the way of turkey an puddin' wouldn't be worth
mentioning--an' him booked to ride to-day! 'Plenty' always did be his
motter, an' he lives up to it. So he's pounds overweight, an' no help
for it."
"Never mind, Murty," Jim said. "He knows the horse, and Shannon's able
to stand a few pounds extra. He'll give us a good run."
"I believe ye, Masther Jim," said Murty, beaming. "He'll not disgrace
us, an' if he don't win itself, then he'll not be far behind. There you
are, Billy--that's the bell for weighin'. Hurry up now, and get over to
the scales."
The black boy's lean figure, saddle and bridle on arm, threaded its way
through the crowd round the weighing enclosure--a little space fenced
off by barbed wire. Presently they saw him coming back grinning.
"That pfeller sayin' I plenty too much pounds," he said in an unusual
burst of eloquence.
"Ah, don't be rubbin' it in--don't I know it?" quoth Murty, taking the
saddle and slipping it deftly on Shannon's back. "I dunno, did he think
he was givin' me a pleasant surprise with the information by way of a
New Year's gift. Does he think we've never a scales on Billabong, did
ye ask him? There now, he's ready. Get on him, Billy, an' shove out into
the track for a canter. I'll get nothing but chat from every one as
long as you're here. Take him for a look at some of the hurdles, the way
he'll know all about them when he comes to jump." He stood with a frown
on his good-humoured face as Shannon and his rider made off.
Norah laid a hand on his arm.
"There's not a horse on the course better turned out, Murty," she said.
"No one can say the Billabong representative doesn't look fit."
Murty turned on her, beaming again.
"Well, indeed, he'll not be doin' the station any discredit, Miss
Norah," he said happily, "an' if he don't win, well, we can't all be
winnin', can we? Only we did win a race last year, whin none of ye
were here to be watchin' us an' make it worth while. I'd like to score
to-day, now that ye're all here to see--an' Miss Tommy too, that's never
seen racin'." He smiled down at the English girl's pink face.
"I'm going to see you win to-day, Murty--I feel it in my bones," said
Tommy promptly. "I've always loved Shannon, ever since I saw you jump
those big fences with him when we put up the hare out mustering."
"Yerra, that one'd make a steeplechaser if he got the trainin',"
declared Murty, all his troubles forgotten. "Come a little higher up,
won't ye, Miss Norah; we can see every jump from the top of the rise,
barrin' the wan that's in the timber."
They followed him up the little hill until he declared himself satisfied
with his position; and he spent the time until the flag fell in pointing
out to Tommy the exact places where the hurdles were erected--pausing
only for a proud look when Shannon thundered past below them in his
preliminary canter, the green jacket bright in the sun, and every muscle
in the horse's gleaming body rippling as he moved. He was reefing and
plunging in his gallop, trying to get his head; but Billy soon steadied
him, and presently brought him up the straight again at a quiet trot.
The other horses went out, one by one, until at length a field of eight
faced the starter; and presently they were off, and over the first jump
in a body. They came down the straight on the first time round, packed
closely, a glittering mass of shining horses and bright colours. One
dropped at the jump near the judge's box, and as the other horses raced
away round the turn the riderless horse followed, while his jockey lay
still for a moment, a little scarlet blur upon the turf. Eager helpers
ran forward to pick him up, but he was on his feet before they could
reach him, and came limping up the hill, a little bruised and infinitely
disgusted.
"He's all right," Murty said. "Yerra, Mr. Jim, did ye see the ould horse
jump! He wint ahead at his fences like a deer!"
The horses were in the timber; they peered anxiously at the bright patch
of colour that showed from time to time, trying to see the familiar
green jacket. Then, as the field came into view Murty uttered an
irrepressible yell, for his horse shot ahead at the next jump and came
into the straight in the lead. Murty gripped at the nearest object,
which happened to be Norah's shoulder, and clenched it tightly,
muttering, in his excitement, words in his native Irish. They thundered
up the straight, Billy crouching on Shannon's neck, very still. Then
behind him the Mulgoa horse drew out from the ruck and came in chase.
Nearer and nearer he came, while the shouts from the crowd grew louder.
Up, up, till his nose was at Shannon's quarter--at his girth--at his
shoulder, and the winning-post was very near. Then suddenly Billy lifted
his whip and brought it down once, and Shannon shot forward with a last
wild bound. Murty's hat went up in the air--and Wally's with it.
"He's done it!" Murty babbled. "Yerra, what about Billabong now?" He
suddenly found himself gripping Norah's shoulder wildly, and would have
apologized but that Norah herself was dancing with delight, and looking
for his hand to grasp. And the crowd was shouting "Shannon! Shannon!
Billabong!"--since all of these Cunjee folk loved Billabong and were
steadily jealous of Mulgoa. Jim and Wally were thumping Murty on the
back. Bob and Mr. Linton stood beaming at him. Below them Billy came
trotting back on his victorious steed, sitting with a grave face, as
expressionless as if he had not just accomplished his heart's desire.
But his dark, mysterious eyes scanned the crowd as he turned from
weighing in, and only grew satisfied when he saw the Billabong party
hurrying to greet him. They shook his hand, and smote him on the back,
Dave Boone and Mick Shanahan prancing with joy. And Shannon, his glossy
coat dark with sweat, nuzzled again at Norah's pocket for an apple--and
this time got it.
This glorious event over, interest became focused on a trotting race,
which brought out a queer assortment of competitors, ranging from
King Lightfoot, a horse well known in Melbourne, to Poddy, an animal
apparently more fitted to draw a hearse than to trot in a race--a lean,
raw-boned horse of a sad countenance and a long nose, with a shaggy
black coat which rather resembled that of a long-haired Irish goat.
There were other candidates, all fancied by their owners, but the public
support was only for King Lightfoot, who ran in elaborate leather and
rubber harness, and was clearly regarded by his rider as of infinite
condescension to be taking part in such a very mixed company.
It proved, however, not to be King Lightfoot's lucky day. The horses
started at intervals, according to their performances or merit, Poddy
being the first to move, the Melbourne horse the last. King Lightfoot,
however, obstinately refused to trot, whereas Poddy revealed unexpected
powers, flinging his long legs abroad in a whirlwind fashion, and
pounding along doggedly, with his long nose outstretched as if hoping
to get it past the winning-post as soon as possible. No other horse came
near him; his initial lead was never lessened, and he plugged doggedly
to victory, while the crowd roared with laughter, and out in the timber
King Lightfoot's rider wrestled with his steed in vain. Later, his
prejudice against trotting in the bush removed by stern measures, King
Lightfoot flashed up the track like a meteor, with his furious rider
determined to show something of what his steed could do. By that time
Poddy was once more unsaddled, and was standing under a tree with his
weary nose drooping earthwards, so that the crowd merely yelled with
laughter anew, while the stewards unfeelingly requested the Melbourne
man to get off the track.
"Oh, isn't it hot!" Norah fanned herself with a bunch of gum leaves, and
cast an anxious look at Tommy.
It was breathlessly hot. Not a hint of air stirred among the trees or
moved the long dry grass that covered the paddock--now showing many
depressions, where tired people or horses had lain down to rest. The
horses stood about, drooping their heads, and swishing their tails
ceaselessly at the tormenting flies; men and women sought every
available patch of shade, while dogs stretched themselves under the
buggies, panting, with lolling tongues. Children alone ran about, as
though nothing could mar their enjoyment; but babies fretted wearily in
their mothers' arms. Overhead the sun blazed fiercely in a sky of brass.
Now and then came a low growl of thunder, giving hope of a change at
night; but it was very far distant, although a dull bank of cloud lay to
the west. David Linton watched the cloud a little uneasily.
"I don't quite like the look of it," he muttered to himself. "I'll go
and ask Murty what he thinks of it." But Murty had been swallowed up
in a crowd anxious to congratulate him on Shannon's success, and
his employer failed to find him at the moment. He came upon Sarah,
however--sitting under a tree, with her baby wailing dismally.
"To hot for her, Sarah," David Linton said kindly.
"That's right, sir--it's too hot for anyone, let alone a little tiny
kid," Sarah said wearily. "I'd get Bill to go home if I could, but I
can't get on his tracks--and it's too hot to take baby out in the sun
looking for him. If you come across him, sir, you might tell him I want
him."
"All right," said the squatter. "But you wouldn't take that long drive
home yet, Sarah--better wait until the sun goes down."
"Well, I'd go into Cunjee, to me sister-in-law's," said Sarah. "She'd
let me take baby's things off an' sponge her--an' I'd give a dollar to
do it. No more races with kids for me in weather like this!" She crooned
to the fretting baby as Mr. Linton went off.
He found Tommy and Norah together under a tree near the track--hot, but
interested.
"Where are the boys?"
"They're all holding ponies," Norah said. "I don't quite know why, but a
very hot and worried man collected them to help start the race. What is
it for, Dad, do you know?"
"Oh, I see!" David Linton laughed. "It's--a distance handicap--the
ponies all start at the same moment, but from different points along the
track."
"Yes, that must be it," Norah said. "Jim's away over near the timber
with a little rat of a pony, and Bob is shepherding another fifty yards
behind him, while Wally is quite near here with that big pony of the
blacksmith's that has won ever so many races. She'll have a lot of
ground to make up. But why must each one be shepherded, Dad?"