Cloud, the Smiter

CHAPTER II.--A YEAR LATER-1

CHAPTER II.--A YEAR LATER

IT was the Christmas Cup Saturday at Morphettville Racecourse, Adelaide, and old Andy McIver had got his betting boots on and was doing well. A rich man and in no need of money, he was, of course, winning all along the line. After three races in succession he had gone up to draw money from the paying-out windows of the totalisator.

He had had twenty-five pounds on Bottle King in the Hurdles and it had returned him a dividend of over eight to one.

Then he had had fifty pounds on his own animal, Lightning, in the Welter and, although it only came in second, his money was returned to him exactly doubled.

He had next plunged heavily on Clara in the youngsters' race and the beautiful little filly, coming like a whirlwind at the finish, had pipped the favourite easily by a length. Nearly six hundred pounds had then been added to the already thick wad of notes in his breast pocket.

He was very pleased with himself, nor did he mind who knew it.

"Splendidly, my boy," he called out loudly in answer to the inquiry of a friend two rows in front of him on the grand stand, "I'm picking them all out. It's as easy as shelling peas."

He walked out, and down to where the band was playing, wondering what he should back for the Cup.

Suddenly, when turning round to admire two pretty girls who were passing, he banged into a big stout man, almost knocking the race glasses the latter was carrying out of his hand.

"Curse you, Andy," expostulated the corpulent individual sharply. "What are you swerving all over the course for? Leave the girls alone, can't you? I should have thought you were too old for that sort of thing now--you wicked old gambler."

"Hullo, Charlie--beg pardon, old man, but weren't they peaches? Pretty as two-year-olds and just about as skittish, too. The little dark one smiled at me; I'll swear she did."

"I shouldn't wonder either. Your old red face would make anybody smile. I could grin myself any day when I see you; but how are you doing to-day?"

The old man beamed with happiness like a boy. "Dinkum, dinkum, Charlie, I'm drawing money every time. Now, bless me if I don't back your animal in the Cup. I wanted a good outsider, but I never thought of Boxer till I saw you. Any chance, do you think?"

The owner of Boxer frowned.

"It'd win if they'd let it," he growled, "but, damn them, it never gets a chance. You know the grudge they've all got against me."

Old Andy knew it well enough. Boxer was a good stout horse and beautifully bred, but for over a year now he had been under a cloud. Back in his two-year old days he had been a hot favourite once, in a classic race at Victoria Park. He had finished very badly, however, and the irate owner, whom report said had backed him heavily both off and on the course, had sworn that the horse had been deliberately pulled and thereby prevented from winning.

In a great rage, he had had the jockey up before the Stipendiary Stewards, but the latter, upon deliberation, had found no proof of pulling, and the rider had got off unscathed.

A great to-do had been made about the matter at the time and it was rumoured generally that all the jockeys had sworn among themselves that Boxer should never win on an Adelaide racecourse again.

It might, of course, have been only a rumour, but strangely enough. Boxer never had won since.

A splendid galloper at exercise and on the track, and always most highly spoken of by all the touts and sporting correspondents who had watched him, he had, however, never been able in many subsequent attempts to catch the judge's eye.

Something always seemed to happen to him when he came on to the racecourse. Either he got off badly, or something bumped into him at the start, or some other horse compelled him to run wide at the turn, or he got boxed in at the finish and could not get an opening to run through.

Whatever it was, intentional or not, he never seemed to get a fair chance and was certainly the most unlucky horse in training.

"He's been doing well on the track, hasn't he?" asked Andy. "I saw Rapier wrote the other day that he'd never been going better."

"He's fit to beat anything in the Cup," replied the other, gloomily; "he's only got eight stone and the distance just suits him. But there you are--some damned bad luck will come to him as sure as we're talking here. I tell you, Andy, they won't let him win."

"You've got young Lane riding him to-day? I read it somewhere."

"Yes, I'm alright there. Lane's one of the most promising riders in the West. It's quite by chance I got him, too. I heard he was here on holiday with his father, and I asked the old man if he'd let the boy ride. I know he's only an apprentice, but he's a fine judge of pace and a clean, jolly little fellow altogether."

"Well, let's have a word with him, Charlie. I'm going to back your horse and chance it, anyhow."

They went round by the weighing-room and found the boy. He was talking to his father. He certainly did look a nice little chap. Old Andy was introduced.

"Mr. Andrew McIver?" queried the elder Lane. "I know you very well by reputation, sir, for my brother worked on your station at Woolaroo for many years, and a very good master he said you were. He was never tired of telling us of your kindness and the way you always treated all your men."

"Tut, tut," replied old Andy with his red face redder now than ever. "I remember Bob Lane well and a better man I'll never meet. I could trust him anywhere; but look here now, we've come to you about this race. Mr. Horrocks here is my great friend, and I'm most anxious to see Boxer win. I'm backing him heavily myself, too."

"Well, sir, my lad'll do his best. You can depend on Ted."

"I know that, but I expect you've heard by now that people say Boxer's never going to be allowed to win. You've heard that, haven't you?"

The jockey's father looked rather uncomfortable.

"Yes, sir, I've heard something," he replied, and then he added proudly, "but my boy's no fool, although he looks a kid. He'll see that no tricks are played. Won't you, Ted?"

The boy grinned.

"Got my riding orders, sir," he said. "Win almost from start to finish if I can. I've had a spin on him and I don't want anything better."

"Good boy, sonny," broke in old Andy admiringly. "I'll have a packet on your mount and if you win there'll be a hundred of the best to go into your money box, see?"

The boy grinned impishly this time.

"Well, don't give it to dad, sir. I'll come for it myself, sure I will."

In high good humour Andy patted him on the back.

"By Jove, you'll do, I can see. I'll have to have an extra fiver on the tote to pay for your present. I really do believe, Horrocks, that we're going to win."

The bell rang and the little jockey ran off. It wanted twenty minutes yet to the starting time, but business was already brisk at the totalisator and the figures under the various horses' names were changing and mounting almost with every second.

Already nearly 3,000 had been invested and he would have been a smart man who could have determined from the figures exactly which horse was going to end up favourite.

There were sixteen runners, but four horses alone were being heavily backed, and of these Rose Darling held just a slight predominance over the others. Over 500 had been posted to her credit.

Andy McIver smiled knowingly when he saw the figures. "Boxer at any rate has got a poor following," he said to that horse's owner who was standing beside him. "Only 52 so far. Why man, it'll pay forty if it's no better backed than it is now."

"Well, I'm going to have fifty on," growled Horrocks; "that'll make 'em think a bit."

"Don't have it on yet, Charlie; I'm going to have fifty on, too, and perhaps a hundred. Wait till towards the end. Wait till everybody's put down their money and then we'll go in together for a good slapping win. Damn those jockeys, I say; it'll be the sell of their lives if Boxer wins and I do believe he's going to--something tells me he is."

"You're a real baby, Andy. I've had that feeling hundreds of times in my life--and a nice penny it's cost me. But we'll wait until the last three minutes and then we'll go on to the rise and see our money lost."

Two minutes before the race was due to start Andy and his friend hopefully advanced to the 5 window and a big jump of 150 was immediately recorded to the investments on Boxer.

Confidence in Boxer even then looked rather small, less then 260 in a total of over 6,000 being all that was under his name.

The start took place just opposite the stands, and the sixteen horses were getting ready to line up.

Boxer was drawn number eleven, and the two friends soon saw that the youthful jockey had all his wits about him.

Pinkeye, drawn number ten, started kicking and plunging and little Lane expostulated shrilly.

"Now then, keep your old bus away, will you? Have you drawn my number as well as yours? Keep away now."

The other jockeys laughed good naturedly.

"Alright, baby," said one, "you shall have the whole course to yourself in a minute when we've started--so don't worry now."

"You want some of the lads from Perth here," went on the little chap. "They'd teach you to line up properly anyhow."

The crowd round the rails were much amused.

"That's Boxer he's riding," said a tall thin woman who appeared to know everything and everybody on the course.

"Yes, and Boxer'll get boxed in," replied her friend, equally knowing; "he always does, you see. I wouldn't back him to-day at a hundred to one."

"Oh, that's nonsense. He'll win some day."

"Not till they let him," her friend replied meaningly, and she lowered her voice. "Do you know, they say that whenever Boxer runs there are two jockeys always told off specially to prevent him winning."

"Oh, I've heard that, of course, but whether it's true or not goodness only knows."

"Well, you see if I'm not right. He'll never get a look in."

The start was delayed quite a long while. Several of the horses seemed fractious and to be almost purposely refusing to come into line. The newspapers said next day that Boxer was certainly the worst offender, and perhaps they weren't far wrong. Certainly young Lane appeared to be having a lot of trouble with his mount, and time after time it was Boxer alone who prevented the field being sent off.

The starter was most patient--perhaps partly because the rider was a stranger to South Australia, and partly also because he could not have been unaware of the cloud the horse was under.

The boy did not seem a bit flurried, however, and took everything most deliberately. He said afterwards that the jockeys on either side squeezed in directly he came near--so he just invariably made Boxer back out, and tried again.

Andy McIver was watching everything most intently. He smiled gleefully at Horrocks.

"The little devil," he chuckled, "he's doing it on purpose. With any luck he'll poach a flying start."

And a flying start he did poach. When for about the tenth time Lane tried to take his allotted position without being squeezed, and for the tenth time it seemed that purposely both his neighbours closed in, the starter called out sharply to them to keep their mounts straight, and then instantly after let the tapes go up. Lane had been hustling the gelding forward quickly to take the clear opening that had been made for him, and the start caught him on the move.