The name of Barellan was seldom called by the bookmakers. Bellshaw wondered why? Had they laid his horse heavily before he met with his accident?
He went to Gerard and asked the price of his horse.
"You mean you won't lay him," said Bellshaw.
"Do you expect him to run well?" asked Bellshaw.
"I expect him to win," answered the bookmaker. "I hope he does for Leigh's sake."
Bellshaw made some remark about Leigh being a bad lot.
"He's a straight goer. It's a pity there are not more like him," said Nick.
"Perhaps it is. Even if he wins the sweep he'll soon lose it. Probably you'll get most of it, or some of your fraternity," retorted Bellshaw.
"You don't know the man. If he wins he'll stick to it, take my word for it," said Nick.
Barellan's price was a hundred to eight, and no longer odds were obtainable about him. This was not tempting enough for Bellshaw, so he made no further investment.
Jack was knocked out to a hundred to one for some reason or other. His trainer did not understand it as he thought the horse had a fair outside chance.
Glen Leigh was missing. Bill and Jim could not find him.
"He's best alone until after the race," said Bill. "He must feel a bit queer about it; I should."
"So should I," agreed Jim. "Fancy standing to win all those thousands for a sovereign; it makes a fellow's mouth water."
"He'll do something for you if he wins the first prize," said Bill.
"No, it's not his way, but he will, depend upon it; I shouldn't wonder if he gives you his share in the show."
Jim thought of Clara and what he would do if such a stroke of luck came his way. Glen Leigh had gone on to the top of the stand close to the press-box, where he would have a good view of the race. He wished to be alone. His feelings almost overcame him. He saw Jerry and Tom Roslyn in front of the press-box, and was glad they had not noticed him.
There was a dull roaring sound all over the course, the voices of thousands of people talking before the race, mingled with the shouts of the bookmakers. A sea of faces met Glen's gaze as he looked across the course. Far away, on the other side of the canal, people were camped on the slopes, waiting for the big field to come out. At the back of him, on the hill, there was a dense crowd reaching down to the top of the stand; he turned round and looked at the surging mass. To his right, below, was the ring, and paddock; he saw a mass of heads on Tattersalls' stand, and just caught a glimpse of a colour or two in the paddock. On the lawn people were still strolling about in groups. The race, most of it, could be seen from the terrace and the slopes. Presently, when the horses came round the bend for home there would be a rush to get on the rails. Still further to the left was another stand, on which there was plenty of room. Late lunchers were still under the vines, but were now making a move towards the terrace and stands. A long streak of bright green, the course, stretched out between the crowds. A solitary horseman cantered down. It was the starter going to the post; then the clerk of the course came along, on an old chaser, and went after him. Already there were one or two in the stewards' stand. Near the weighing room diminutive men were going about; they were the jockeys weighed out for the race. It was an animated glittering scene; many-hued costumes, the brightest of colours, the daintiest of designs, artistic creations, the labour of clever women and clever men, and hats and sunshades almost too dazzling to feast the eyes upon, as the glorious sun poured his rays down from the cloudless sky. It was an ideal day. A faint breeze, tinged with sea air from the bay far away, cooled hot cheeks, and blew delicately through thin blouses and skirts. Men moved about in all sorts of headgear; but there were no regulation top-hats, although in the Governor's Box "a bit of Ascot" was seen. It was Glen Leigh's first Melbourne Cup, and the sight at Flemington entranced him, threw a glamour over him, and he looked at it all and fancied himself alone, even in the vast crowd. And he had drawn Barellan in the big sweep. Would the horse win? Would No. 33444 be the successful ticket? He had it in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at it, thinking how wonderful it was that if Barellan won he could cash it for nearly twenty-five thousand pounds.