It was a breathless scene, full of strange emotion, bringing out all the pent-up enthusiasm that nothing can rouse like a great race. People watched with bated breath; hands shook, hearts palpitated, eyes blinked, faces twitched, nerves twinged, pulses beat rapidly. In all those thousands no one appeared to stand quite still. There were movements everywhere; it was impossible to restrain them.

Glen Leigh's mind was in a whirl.

Twenty-five thousand pounds at stake, a fortune on Barellan and the horse was only a few lengths from the winning post. He guessed how many, twenty, thirty, more, less, which was it? What did it matter, if only he won at the finish!

"He'll win, he'll win, he'll win," seemed to be the refrain in Glen's ears as he now and then caught a dull sound of hoofs when there were brief lulls in the shouting.

"Go on, Luke," he yelled. "Go on. You'll catch 'em."

He could not restrain his feelings. He must shout or something would happen. The strain was too great. There might be a snap, and then collapse.

Glen Leigh was a strong man, hard and fit, but the perspiration stood on his forehead like beads, then gradually trickled down his face. He did not feel it. Even when the drops wet his eyes he took no notice. He glared at the sky-blue jacket through a mist which soon pa.s.sed, although for the moment it dimmed his vision. He put down the gla.s.ses. He could see without them. The horses were not far off. He bent forward, swayed a little. The man who had spoken to him thought he was about to fall and caught him by the arm. He remembered a policeman, who had drawn the winner, falling down dead on the lawn as the horses pa.s.sed the post.

Glen felt the friendly pressure, and said in a thick voice, "Thanks. I'm all right."

Roar after roar came from the surging crowd as Roland, the favourite, got his head in front of Isaac.

The shouts of triumph rang in the air, heralding the victory of the favourite, and when this happens in a Melbourne Cup the scene baffles description. Who that saw it will ever forget the wonderful victory of Carbine when he carried top weight, started favourite, and beat Forester's Highborn, and Correze, both outsiders, easily? It was a sight seen only once in a lifetime. It equalled Persimmon's Derby, if it did not surpa.s.s it, and "Old Jack" took it all quietly, for, as he pa.s.sed the winning post, he stopped, turned round, and made for the weighing enclosure without any a.s.sistance from Ramage, his pilot. This race was more exciting than Carbine's Cup even, for there were four horses in it, all with chances, and close on the winning post.

"Even hundred n.o.body names it," yelled a bookmaker in the ring. It was a safe offer, for n.o.body could name it except by a lucky guess.

Roland was a neck in front of Isaac, Out Back and Barellan were on their quarters.

An electric current seemed to shoot through the living ma.s.s of human beings and galvanise them into life; such a shout rent the air as had not been heard at Flemington before. There had been desperate finishes between two horses, but here were four putting up one of the greatest battles ever seen.

Glen Leigh shook with excitement. Small wonder at it, for the sky-blue jacket had pa.s.sed Out Back, and drawn almost level with Isaac.

"I'm sure of the place money," thought Glen with a sigh of relief.

Sure of the place money! In another second Barellan looked all over a winner. Roland, hard ridden, held his own. Isaac was only half a length off, the three together, with Out Back on the Derby winner's quarters.

What a fight, and what a great compliment to the handicapper, for behind the leading four came a cl.u.s.ter of six, not two lengths away.

Bill Bigs and Jim were well nigh frantic. Their hats were off. They yelled, "Barellan," until they were hoa.r.s.e.

Ivor Hadwin turned pale. The strain was almost more than he could bear.

If, if only Barellan got his head in front as they pa.s.sed the judge's box.

"He will. He'll win," almost shouted the trainer, who had to give way under the pressure. His shouts acted like a safety valve.

Barellan was head and head with Isaac, Roland half a length to the good, and the winning post a few yards away.

Luke Nicholl, for the first time, raised his whip. He was on the outside and his right arm was free.

One cut, another, a third, not too sharp, just sufficient to sting, to give Barellan a reminder.

The effect was astounding. Barellan, acting under the unexpected, went forward with a final rush. His speed was so great that he caught up to the favourite in two strides; his head shot out, his nostrils red and wide, his eyes glared, his nose, then half a head, was in front; a fraction of a second's suspense, then he claimed a head advantage, then half a neck, a neck, and when this was realised the stands seemed to shake with the deafening noise. It was marvellous. Rounding the bend Barellan had fallen back a dozen lengths. His case seemed hopeless. He had made up all the lost ground in the straight, and now he had his neck in front of all the runners.

Roland made a desperate effort, reducing the distance to half a neck again. Isaac drew up, so did Out Back. The four horses were all together.

Glen Leigh looked, and looked. He had a dim vision of blue, pink, black, white, red, orange, mixed together. Was the blue in front? He thought so. How he hoped no one else knew.

At last the struggle was at an end. The horses pa.s.sed the post, four of them with not a length between them. An anxious pause; thousands of people could not tell which had won, the numbers were not up. The judge seemed a long time hoisting them, but up they went at last. He placed Barellan first, Roland second, a neck away, Isaac and Out Back, half a length away, dead heat for third place.

What a finish!

CHAPTER XXVIII

A TERRIBLE SAVAGE

It was over. Barellan had won, and Glen Leigh was the fortunate holder of his number in the sweep. He had come into a fortune at one stroke. He elbowed his way through the crowd hardly knowing what he was doing, and went in search of his friends. It was not easy to find them in the great crowd streaming towards Tattersalls and the paddock. As he pushed through the ring he saw people gathering round bookmakers. Barellan must have been well backed; hundreds were drawing money. He saw nothing of Bill and Jim. He would go into the paddock. They might be there, thinking he had gone to look at the winner.

Nicholl had weighed in and was standing talking to the trainer as Glen appeared on the scene. They greeted him heartily, shaking his hand, congratulating him on his good fortune.

"There's five hundred each for you," said Glen.

They thanked him; it was a generous gift.

"I never felt so queer in my life as I did when Barellan fell back just after rounding the bend," declared Glen. "What happened?"

"I thought he was going to crack up," answered the jockey. "It must have been his foot. I fancy he wanted to ease it as he came round the bend; it probably pinched him."

"That's it," said Hadwin. "There's no doubt about it. What a run he made up the straight. I never saw anything like it."

While they were talking Bellshaw came up, scowling. He did not look like the owner of the Cup winner.

"You see I was right," said Hadwin. "He won a great race."

"Which Nicholl nearly threw away," retorted Bellshaw.

"You're mistaken," said the jockey. "If Barellan hadn't been one of the gamest horses that ever looked through a bridle he would never have got up and won."

"You ran him out wide at the bend when you had a good position on the rails," said Bellshaw.

Nicholl explained, but the squatter was in no mood to listen to reason.

He had won the Melbourne Cup, but Glen Leigh had won first prize in the sweep, and this made him rage. By all the rights of ownership he ought at least to have five thousand laid him if his horse won. When he thought how Leigh threatened him with exposure, he could have killed him without compunction. There was no more dissatisfied man on the course than the owner of the Cup winner. He had no pleasure in the victory. The cheering he knew was not for him but for the horse and jockey.

Glen Leigh walked away to avoid him. He saw the man was in no mood to be crossed and was almost beside himself with ill-feeling and disappointment. It was not, however, Bellshaw's intention that Glen should escape him. He wished to quarrel with somebody, and Leigh scented his purpose. He walked after him and said, loud enough for those standing near to hear, "You've won the sweep money by the aid of my horse. Are you man enough to give me something out of it?"

Glen guessed by the way he spoke he meant mischief. There was menace in his voice. He stopped, faced him, and answered, "I'm man enough to refuse to give you a penny out of it."

Bellshaw swore, then stepping up to him said savagely, "I suppose you'll try and get Rosa Prevost--buy her with the money you've won? You'll not succeed. I'll outbid you. She's fond of money, besides she's been my woman for several years. Perhaps you don't know that. I never intended marrying her. She knew it, and was quite contented with my terms. She will be so again. You stand no chance. I can easily convince her she will be better off with me."