"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 pa.s.sengers 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 spa.r.s.ely 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 gra.s.s 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 s.p.a.ce 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 cl.u.s.tered 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!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed 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 gra.s.s-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 pa.s.sed 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 mult.i.tude 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."