Читать книгу Cloud, the Smiter - Arthur Gask - Страница 4

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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.

He got off a clear length in front of everything else.

"Good boy," roared old Andy, "he's smart as paint. A fiver to nothing now, he rides a good race."

The boy on Boxer was quite aware that so far the luck had been all his way, and crouching low in his saddle he thankfully regarded the clear open course before him. He was sure they had been trying to beat him at the start.

The race was a mile and a half, and Horrocks's trainer had given him implicit directions as to how to ride his mount.

"Keep well up, lad," he had said, "for the first half of the journey; then ease him a bit and make your run two furlongs from home. Boxer can sprint as well as stay. Don't be afraid if you're laying back a bit just as you come round the bend, but if you've escaped so far look out for trouble there. They'll try to run you wide at the turn. Don't use your whip too much."

The boy was sensible enough to follow instructions, and instantly he was clear began to make the most of his mount.

He urged Boxer along at good rattling pace, and it thrilled every nerve of his wiry little body to feel the way the good animal responded to his call. Boxer was only a four-year-old and had not been over-raced. He had a beautiful even motion and covered the ground in a fine devouring stride.

Half a mile from the start he was going like the wind, and still in front. Out of the tail of his eye, however, Lane could just see the fine black head of Beetle Boy looming on his flanks. In the middle distance Boxer was still first, but Beetle Boy was now level with his girths, with Rose Darling just about a head farther behind.

"Has he shot his bolt, Charlie?" anxiously asked old Andy on the stand.

"No, no," testily replied Horrocks, without taking the glasses from his eyes. "Good boy, riding to orders, that's all."

Half a mile from home Boxer had dropped back to fourth on the outside, but his jockey could feel him full of running, and had eased him only because of the definite instructions he had received.

He was running dead level with Repeater, alongside him, but the latter was all out and Lane could see he was tiring and was obviously a beaten horse.

Suddenly, a good fifty yards before the turn for home, Repeater began to swerve badly, threatening to carry Boxer out wide with him. His jockey appeared to have lost control.

In an instant Lane had seen his danger and throwing his instructions to the wind, he suddenly urged on Boxer to topmost speed. He struck him sharply with the whip and Boxer leapt forward like an arrow from a bow.

He escaped interference by a hair's breadth and ruthlessly cutting down his other opponents entered the straight for home a good length ahead.

The boy felt rather frightened then at what he had done. He knew he had commenced his final run quite two hundred yards earlier than he had been told to, but he consoled himself with the belief that he had done quite rightly. If he had not speeded Boxer up he would inevitably have been driven out wide by the fast-tiring Repeater, and would have then entered the straight in an entirely hopeless position.

Now, at any rate, everything was clear and if Boxer were only good enough, he should win.

He knew he could not ease his mount, even ever so little again. He had started Boxer on his final run, and he judged it best to keep what advantage he had gained by his sudden and premature speeding-up.

All at once his anxiety left him. A born judge of a thorough-bred, the glorious and perfect action of his mount enthralled him. Boxer was putting in a tremendous pace, but he was still running with a beautiful easy motion, and there was no sign whatever of any tiring or distress.

A fierce excitement thrilled through the boy. Again, as when they had first started, he was leading in front of them all and again he had the great wide staring course open and free before him. On, on the whole field thundered.

Crouching low against the tremendous rush of wind he rode the gelding only with his hands.

The shouting from the stands came up to him like the roar of some mighty hurricane, and then slowly and stealthily so it seemed, the form of another horse loomed up close alongside of him, on the rails.

He did not, however, turn his head. He just stared hard and patiently at the black spot in the distance that he knew was the judge's box. Every second it was getting bigger and bigger.

The horse near to him came farther into view. Its head reached level with Boxer's girths, it came nearer and nearer still and then it stopped.

Without turning he knew it was Rose Darling. Her jockey was flogging her savagely with his whip. The judge's box was very near now.

The boy was sorely tempted to strike Boxer, too, but instinct told him the gelding was all out and a cut now might make him swerve and lose the race. So he just held patiently on in a grim agony of suspense.

Only about five yards farther to go now and still Rose Darling was just by Boxer's neck. A mist came over the boy's eyes, and for a moment his heart stood still.

A mighty roar of sound and it was over. Boxer had won by a head.

Old Andy wiped the perspiration from his forehead and then solemnly shook Boxer's owner by the hand.

"By gad," he almost whispered, "but what a race and what a little artist the chap is! If he'd lifted his whip once, ever so little, he'd have lost us the race."

The apprentice jockey received a tremendous ovation from the crowd. Nearly all of them had lost their money over the race, but the masterly way in which the little fellow had matched himself against the jockey of Rose Darling, one of the finest riders in the State, appealed vividly to their imaginations and they cheered heartily when he came in.

The boy at first tried hard to appear bored, as he had seen the crack jockeys always did, but his youth was not proof for long against the cheering he received and he soon showed his delight in a broad and impish grin.

Over £7,000 had been invested in the totalisator, and Boxer returned the handsome dividend of £18 15s. 0d. for every pound that had been invested on his chance.

Old Andy asked for his dividend in the largest notes available, but even then he found his breast pocket inconveniently small for all the money he had received.

Some of his friends remonstrated with him for drawing so large a sum of money on the course.

"Why man," urged one of them reprovingly, "it's tempting Providence to walk about with so much money here. Why on earth didn't you leave it until next week and draw it at the offices in the city? You're always pointed out as a dreadful gambler and lots of people know by now that you've had two good wins."

Andy laughed happily.

"Let 'em all know it—I don't care. I want to handle the money in good plain notes to see what I've won. None of your uninteresting cheques for me. I get plenty of them every day."

"But surely you're not going home alone."

"Certainly I am, and in my own good car. I'm driving myself too. I've been here all this afternoon quite alone."

But Andy McIver was mistaken here. He had never been quite alone. The whole time long, Death in a dreadful form had been hovering near him. Death at the hands of a pale-faced and insignificant-looking man. He was disguised, this man, and he wore a false beard. Never once had his eyes left Andy since he had arrived on the course. He had followed him every minute of the time. He had watched him laugh and talk and seen him gather in his winnings with a dreadful smile. He knew all about Andy, and he had marked him down.

Andy McIver was looking his last upon this gay scene, and it was well he could take in the beauty and the happiness of it all, for it was his last day on earth.

Never again would he come here in joyful health and strength, never again would he blithely smile and greet his friends, never again would he see the glory of those long low hills.

He had had a long life had Andy, but the sands were running low now and Fate was calling him for his last race. His colours were 'all black' and it was Death who rang the saddling bell.

The racing was all over a few minutes after five, but it was quite half an hour later before old Andy left the course. He had found so many friends to chat with, that time had passed much more quickly than he thought.

"By Jove," he exclaimed presently, looking suddenly at his watch, "I shall catch it. We dine at six and there'll be the very devil to pay if I am late," and with a final nod and wave of his hand he bustled to his car.

A police inspector came by just as he was getting in.

"Hullo, Inspector," Andy called out genially; "how are you to-day? Still the best-looking in the force, I see. My word, but you've been quite a picture to-day."

Inspector Romilly turned sharply to see who was addressing him so familiarly and then, recognising McIver, allowed his face to break into a pleased and pleasant smile.

He certainly was a good-looking man, this Inspector of the Adelaide police. He had a fine strong face with good clear-cut features and a pair of very thoughtful grey eyes. He wore a military moustache, with the ends slightly waxed, and carried himself proudly as becomes a man who had fought with distinction in the great war. He was about thirty-five years of age.

"Good evening to you, sir," he replied with his eyes twinkling. "Yes, I'm still in the Beauty Competition, but I don't seem to come in for any prizes somehow. Beauty unfortunately doesn't count yet for promotion in the Force."

"Never mind, Inspector, it'll come soon. They can't pass over a face like yours for ever. But, tell me, have you backed any winners this afternoon?"

"No, I've had no luck, but I only had one bet. I backed Rose Darling."

"Poor chap—and I backed Boxer."

"A very fine race, Mr. McIver. The little chap quite deserved his win."

"Yes—it was lucky for us he was riding. Do you know, Inspector, I've won over £2,000 here to-day and drawn it all in cash. I've got my pocket absolutely full of notes."

The inspector frowned.

"Do you mean to say, sir, that you've got over £2,000 on you, now?"

"Yes, and it bulges me out quite uncomfortably too."

The inspector shook his head gravely.

"It's not wise, Mr. McIver; it's very foolish. Lots of people must have heard you have won."

"Oh yes, they were looking out for it. I got an unexpected cheque for £300 yesterday and told several friends I was coming here to-day to give it a run. I showed a lot of people my tickets, too, before I cashed them; but bless your heart, I'm not afraid. I've got a good automatic at home, and a big dog that would account for anybody who dared to come prowling round. But good night, Inspector, I must be going. My niece will raise the roof off, if I'm late."

The inspector watched him thoughtfully as he drove away.

"I'm not sure," he muttered, "that I oughtn't to give the station at Glenelg a call to look after his house to-night. He's a jovial old soul, but indiscreet—very."

Andy McIver's car was a speedy one, and in less than a quarter of an hour the old man was at home and getting ready for dinner.

He lived in a big substantial-looking house on the seafront between Brighton and Glenelg. A far-seeing speculator, he had years before bought a large stretch of land on the foreshore and he was now reaping the benefit of his enterprise. Upon part of the land he had built houses which he let to about a dozen tenants, but upon the best portion he had erected a beautiful house for his own enjoyment.

The house was built on slightly elevated ground and commanded a magnificent view of the sea. A wall about seven feet high ran all round the house and garden, and there was admittance to the domain only through two gates. One entrance—the main one—was at the back of the garden, and the other, a much smaller one—faced the front of the house and led down towards the sea.

The old man lived with his widowed sister, Mrs. Carter, and a niece—the only daughter of a dead brother. There were three maid-servants and a gardener-chauffeur.

Mr. McIver was very merry at dinner that night and commiserated with his niece that she had not been at the races in the afternoon.

His niece was a tall, stately-looking girl, in her twenty-third year. A decided brunette, she was undeniably very good looking. She had beautiful dark eyes, and a creamy olive complexion. She was of a rather reserved disposition, however, and people generally considered her cold and proud. Apart from being an heiress, she had many admirers, but she appeared to have very little interest in the other sex, and so far no one had succeeded in engaging her affections. She was very fond of her uncle and looked after him in a motherly sort of way.

"I won over £2,000 to-day," announced Andy, "and if you had been there you would have joined in the good luck."

"Good gracious, uncle," ejaculated his niece in pretty surprise, "and what on earth are you going to do with it?"

"Put it in the safe, my girl. I'm too tired to count it to-night; but what would you and your aunt like for a present?"

Mrs. Carter always had plenty of wants and the evening was for the most part passed in animated consideration as to exactly how many of these multitudinous requirements were going to be supplied.

At ten o'clock the old man retired as usual to his bedroom. It was a large square room, luxuriously furnished. It had large French windows that opened right to the ground and led into the garden at the back.

He passed out into the garden, and crossing a narrow strip of lawn made his way to a small building directly under the wall, wherein was housed a big dog of the boar-hound type.

By day the dog was always kept strictly confined behind the high bars that surrounded his exercise yard, but at night he was always let free, to roam round the garden and the outside of the house.

The dog was very ferocious-looking, but in the day-time he was really quite a good-tempered animal. At nights, however, he was a very different creature, and it would have gone ill with any intruder whom he caught prowling round the place.

Andy McIver was very proud of the animal and always felt quite safe under his protection in the hours of darkness.

He never troubled about locking any of the doors or windows of the house.

The carriage gate and the little gate in front were the only places that were ever locked at all.

The old man unloosed the dog and immediately he treated himself as usual to a good scamper round the grounds. It was a beautiful moonlight night and his master affectionately regarded the great beast enjoying his run.

"You were quite mistaken, Mr. Good-looking Inspector," he chuckled to himself, "quite mistaken. There'll be no danger to anyone here as long as Vulcan's about. He's as good as a whole squad of your police. Hullo, old chap, what is it, what is it?" for the dog had suddenly stopped in his mad gallop and, instead, was sniffing about in short circles on the lawn. "What have you found? Come here, Vulcan, come here."

Reluctantly, so it seemed, the great beast advanced to his master. "Good old Vulcan, you're a dear old thing, aren't you?" and bending down he squeezed the great big head between his hands. "So you love the old man, do you? Well, the old man must go in now, for he's not as young as he used to be and wants his bed. Good night, old boy, good night," and with a last look round at the tranquil beauty of the scene Andy McIver went back into the house.