The Australasian/1936/10/24/The Shearer's Colt

The mare Nancy Bell, with her jockey, duly arrived at Calabash and soon cast the spell of the thoroughbred over her millionaire owner.

The day after the mare's arrival he was discovered sitting by her feed-box, listening ecstatically to the sound of her jaws as she munched her food. Every now and again the mare would give him a friendly look from one of her liquid brown eyes and rub her head against him. When she went out for walking exercise he would follow her down the paddock, admiring the dainty way in which she picked up her feet.

"Them's the sort," he said, "that the bushrangers used to take away when they stuck up a station. They'd run the mob into the yard and pick out the good-bred sorts. Then when the traps got after them they'd race straight across country, up mountains and down sidelings, till they got where they could hide out for awhile. How would you like to have the troops after you, Nancy? You'd show 'em, old girl."

After a day's acquaintance the ex-shearer took to giving the mare furtive lumps of sugar from the bin in the kitchen, or handfuls of milk thistle and prairie grass gathered in the garden. The mare, on her part, soon got to know his footsteps, and acknowledged his attentions in a ladylike way by calling out to him while he was still a hundred yards off. The little one-eyed jockey who looked after the mare—if he had any other name than Bill the Gunner nobody had ever heard it—was inclined to take a firm stand about these variations in diet, but Red Fred, in spite of his inferiority complex, was not to be daunted by a jockey. He told Bill the Gunner that if he didn't like it he could come and get his cheque, and Bill the Gunner, though undesirable in many ways, had so firm an affection for the mare that he would rather have left his wife than Nancy Bell.

Not that the mare was any great champion. Of clear thoroughbred English stud book pedigree, as many back blocks horses in Queensland are, she hadn't been broken in till she was four years old, when her frame had had time to mature. She was not gifted with any great amount of pace, but she was as tough as steel and would fight out a race under the whip with the tenacity of a bulldog. Many a better horse had she worried out at the finish of a desperate race on a rough bush track, for tracks or weights or heavy going were all alike to Nancy Bell.

One day there was some trouble with the shearers, and trouble with shearers is serious enough to take a man's mind off any other sort of trouble. A strike may mean that the sheep will have to be let go, to shed their wool all over the paddocks, so when the shearers demanded to see the owner instead of the proper authority, the station manager, a messenger was sent off hot-foot after Red Fred. The shearers said they must see the owner before they would shear another sheep. Nobody could find the owner until it was remembered that he had been seen walking down the paddock after Nancy Bell, and when found he refused to come back to the house.

"Tell 'em they can come and get their cheques," he said. "I know shearers. If a shed runs for two hours without somebody gettin' chipped [faulted for bad shearing] they say 'twelve o'clock and not a word said. We're robbing ourselves. Up on 'em boys'; and away they go, only taking the tops off the fleece and leavin' that much wool on their legs you'd think the sheep was wearin' gaiters. Ain't the mare lookin' lovely, Fitz? I was down at the track at daylight this mornin' watching her gallop and she cleaned up the black horse from Lost River like as he was a hack. And he won the Town Plate at Wallaroo, that fellow."

The station manager, who had come down with Fitzroy to get the boss's verdict about the shearers, was a canny Scot, and, like all Scots, he couldn't resist an argument, even if it cost him his job.

"I wouldn't take too much notice of that, boss," he said. "When they run a trial and one of the owners is there, that owner's horse always wins the trial. All over the wor-r-rld that's the ir-r-ron-clad and un-br-r-roken rule. I mind…"

"Never mind what you 'mind.' You mind your shearers; they'll keep you hopping. Come on, Fitz, let's go and see the mare feed."

The Calabash Charity Meeting was well named, because charity covers a multitude of sins. The secretary of the District Hospital was nominally in control of the meeting, and as the hospital was desperately hard up he would, like Nelson, clap the telescope to his blind eye when asked to detect any wrongdoing by a big subscriber.

Meeting this official in Calabash township, Fitzroy was given the lay of the land.

"The whole show here," said the secretary, "is run by one man, and a Chinaman at that, Jimmy the Pat. D'y ever hear of him?"

Having ascertained that Mr. Hilton Fitzroy had not had the honour of meeting Jimmy the Pat, the secretary proceeded to give the Chinaman's dossier.

"Don't you make any mistake," he said, "this is a wonderful chap, this Chow. He started with nothing—just a coolie—but he was a big, powerful bloke, and could mix it with anybody. He was in the ring for a bit, what d'you think of that—a Chow in the ring! He could take a punch too, let me tell you. My face all same fun,' he'd say. Then he took on running fan-tan and pakapoo joints, and he got to be a big man, because if any of the larrikin crowd got playing up Jimmy could knock him cold.

"Then he started smuggling opium and working it back to the blacks and Chows up in the Territory—heaven only knows what he made out of that. Then he started importing Chinese coolies from Canton with false identification papers, and he made these coolies work as slaves for him in Chinese gardens until they had paid him big money. He owns a couple of stations on the quiet. And then, dash me, if he doesn't start bookmaking!"

This was a task so far beyond Fitzroy's arithmetic that he could hardly believe it.

"A Chow make a book?" he said. "What does he do that for?"

The secretary looked round him before he spoke.

"I'll tell you something," he said, "Jimmy's a very solid man and gives thousands to charities. But there's hardly a fan-tan shop or an opium joint in Queensland but what Jimmy's got a finger in it. There isn't a criminal in Queensland but what would do exactly what Jimmy told him and do it at the double. I think that he took up the bookmaking so that he could travel about and keep an eye on all sorts of crooked jobs. Anything from fan-tan to murder. I don't put anything past Jimmy. His right name is Kum Yoon Jim, but the boys call him Jimmy the Pat. They call all Chinamen 'Pat.' The larrikin crowd only call him that behind his back. He'll hit anyone that calls him Pat to his face. Tough on the Irish, isn't it, when a Chinaman will strike a man for calling him Pat? It ought to be a compliment."

"Why doesn't somebody arrest him?" said Fitzroy, "if he's half what you say he ought to be doing time!"

"That's all very well, but who's going to give evidence against him? The police have been trying to catch him for years over the opium smuggling and fan-tan, but no one will risk his life by giving evidence against him. He's always good-natured and always laughing, but every now and again there's a Chow found dead, and the police think that the dead man has been trying to put the squeeze on Jimmy. Keep all this under your hat, and don't come to me about anything. I'm not going up against Jimmy. This isn't much of a life, but such as it is I mean to hang on to it as long as I can." ••••• And now all was hurry and bustle at Calabash. Strings of carts loaded with grog and provisions streamed out to the track. Blackfellows from adjoining stations raced their half-broken horses down the main street, or perhaps one should say the street, for there was only one street in Calabash.

The bullock-team from Apsley Downs brought in a load of laughing humanity, consisting of about six families, down to the smallest baby. The elite, such as the party from Calabash station and the squatters and their wives from other properties, came in cars flying the colours of their horses. Dressed in yellow silk and sitting in a particularly showy car came the great Chinese bookmaker, Jimmy the Pat, cigar in mouth, and lolling back against the yellow upholstery till, as a cynic observed, you couldn't tell there was anybody in the car.

Bill the Gunner arrived full of importance, and leading Nancy Bell from a station hack, and the Calabash party made a bee-line for the mare's stall under the long bough sheds. The millionaire, shaking with excitement, led the rush, followed by Moira Delahunty and Fitzroy. They plied the Gunner with questions as to whether the mare was all right, and had she eaten up her feed. But the Gunner's vocabulary seemed to be limited to two sentences: "She's home and dried," and "She'll lob in," and with that they had to be content. Then there was a hurried inspection of all the mare's opponents in the Town Plate in which Nancy Bell was engaged.

Such is the glamour of proprietorship that they all agreed that none of them looked like having a chance with her, until they came on a very racy-looking chestnut called Desire, about which nobody seemed to know anything. He looked like a horse that should have a reputation, but even the Gunner could not find out anything about him. He seemed to have dropped from the clouds on to northern Queensland.

Moira had a horse of her own called Iron Cross engaged in the first race, a Maiden Plate, of six furlongs, at catch weights; and as she had no rider of her own, Bill the Gunner was legged into the saddle. Well-bred and not in bad condition, this four-year-old might have run very well, but he had never been off his own bush track, and was green and frightened. At an earlier age he might have run better, but age and experience had taught him that the world was not altogether a friendly place. He went down for his preliminary shying and swerving about as he passed bullock-drays, blackfellows, men operating spinning jennies, and booths, where raucous-voiced "barkers" were inviting all and sundry to come in and earn a pound by staying three rounds with Iron-bark Joe, the lightweight champion of western Queensland.

"The dear thing," said Moira, "he's all of a dither. I rode him most of his work myself, and he can go a bit, but I suppose he'll run all over the place. Still, we must have something on him, mustn't we, Fitz? We can't haul down the flag without firing a shot."

They went into the crowd where Jimmy the Pat was standing on a box and calling "Tlee to one on er feah! Tlee to one on er feah! Whaffor you larp?" for Jimmy, who could speak good English when he chose, always found it paid him to act the comic Chinaman at race meetings. "Koom on now, I gi' you four to one on er feah! Four to one on er feah!"

As there were ten runners, and not a previous winner in the lot, Jimmy was not taking much risk in offering four to one on the field, but he made it sound as though he were offering them a gold-mine. There were three professionally trained horses in the race and most people know that whichever the professionals fancied would win; but the locals began to pour half-notes and pounds, and even fivers, on to their own horses, and before long Jimmy was holding quite a decent bit of money. When Moira and Fitzroy came up and asked the price of Iron Cross, Jimmy beamed on them and said:—

"Iun Closs b'long to you Sissetah, eh? Welly goo' 'oss. I give you flet-ten pong [fifteen pounds] to one Iun Closs."

Fifteen to one was a nice price, but it implied a sort of sneer at the horse, and suggested that only a person of inferior judgment would own or train such an animal. Instead of putting on a pound each, as they had intended, they were stung into putting on a fiver each, and they walked away quite indignant.

"I do hope he runs well," said Moira. "I'd like to teach that Chinaman a lesson. This horse can gallop, we've tried him with some pretty good ones."

As the field fretted and twisted about at the post, Bill the Gunner, who was no mean horseman, watched his chance, and had Iron Cross on the move as the barrier went up. He had drawn a good position on the rails, and for a furlong or so Iron Cross went to the lead, galloping within himself. Then some loud-voiced spectator, leaning over the rails, gave vent to a howl of excitement, and Iron Cross ran across the track almost to the outer rail, letting the whole field come up inside him. By the time the Gunner had got him balanced and into his stride again, most of the field were ahead of him, but he settled down to his work and began to pass them one after another. Before long he was racing almost level with the leaders, but wide on the outside. As they made the turn, the Gunner began to swing him in towards the inner rail to get a position for a straight run home. Though he had covered more ground than anything in the race, he was still galloping gamely, and a mighty shout went up:

"Here, what's this! I'll take even money Iron Cross!"

As he came in towards the leaders, one of the professional horses swung out and cannoned into him sideways, almost knocking him off his feet, and before he had a chance to recover himself the race was over. Even then he was placed third, and must undoubtedly have won only for the deliberate interference. There was no room for a protest, as the winner had not interfered with him, and Moira and Fitzroy went to lunch with rage in their hearts and a determination to get level with the Chinaman, who, they felt sure, had organised the whole thing.

Lunch at the Calabash races was what might be called a sporting affair, as it was enlivened by a fight between two aborigines, who elected to settle their differences in sight of the bough shed under which the repast was set out. The local trooper scorned to interfere in the affair, but he managed to change the venue to a spot where the language of the antagonists was, at any rate, mellowed by distance.

Fitzroy, who had no intention of taking the defeat of Iron Cross lying down, was turning over schemes of revenge in his mind. Matters were not improved by a visit from Jimmy the Pat, who poked a blandly smiling face in under the bough shed, and said that he would give Moira ten pong (ten pounds) for Iron Cross, which he described as "welly goo' 'oss, welly ni'." This was rubbing it in with a vengeance, and Fitzroy could hardly keep his hands off him, prizefighter and all that he was.

The only cheerful member of the luncheon party was Red Fred, who had been down to worship at the shrine of Nancy Bell, and to receive the usual assurance that she would lob in. His informant was, of course, Bill the Gunner, who had learnt very early in his career that an owner, like a nation at war, must always be told good news, otherwise neither the nation nor the owner would go on with the business.

"There's a thing called Desire," said the Gunner, "that nobody knows nothing about. He might give us some trouble, but he's handled by the Chow's mob, and I don't think they'll have a go with 'im. They say he's a disqualified Randwick horse, but if he is they won't want to spin 'im for the few quid they can win 'ere. They'll keep 'im for some other place, where they can dob it down on 'im and win a packet. Anyways, even if they do spin 'im, the little mare'll tear the heart out of 'im at the finish. You take it from me she'll lob in,"

"Isn't it funny," said Moira, "that a man who has sense enough to turn down an offer of a gold-mine would swallow everything told him by such a character as Bill the Gunner? How do you explain it? Even in England I've seen a sensible business man standing outside the betting-ring shifting from one foot to the other, and waiting for a dirty little stable-boy to come and tell him to put a hundred pounds on a horse. Bill the Gunner knows nothing about the other horses, but you'd think he was the Turf guide, the way your boss listens to him!"

"I'd like to get even with that Chinaman," said Fitzroy. "We must see if we can't get at him somehow. They're all frightened of him here—and they are not a crowd that are easily frightened either. I wouldn't much care what I did as long as we could get level with him."

Just then he was hailed by the local trooper, a well-set-up young fellow, known as Bismarck (that man of blood and iron) from his readiness to resort to a stirrup-iron when any hard citizen wanted to resist arrest. Bismarck said that because he got seven bob a day, that didn't include being punched and kicked by every tough in the west. As he walked past them, Bismarck's roving eye lit with approval on the young lady, then he stopped and had a second look at Fitzroy.

"Here, I know you. don't I?" he said. "Wasn't you in the police depot with me? Wasn't you that strong recruit that the sergeant took, hold of to show us how to throw a man, and he couldn't throw you? If you ain't him you're a dead ring for him. That was why they sent you to hell-and-gone out at Barcoo. If you'd let him throw you they'd have kept you in town. You don't want to show the bosses any points, you know, when you're a recruit. What are you doing now? Are you in the police force still?"

Feeling rather like Mohammed's coffin, hovering between heaven and earth, Fitzroy explained his position.

"I'm half in and half out," he said. "I applied for my discharge, but I haven't got any answer yet, so I suppose I am in the force still. I'm on leave just now."

"Of course you're in the force still. Once you put on the jacket you've got to go on running 'em in until the Crown lets you go. But you might introduce me to this young lady. My name's Frankston, if you've forgotten it."

Fitzroy at once introduced him to Moira, adding that she was the owner of Iron Cross, who had been fouled in the first race.

"Fouled," said the trooper, "I should think he was. This is a charity meeting, so they will stand anything; but even if the stewards go to work they'd never get the right man. The Chow was at the back of all that; and if this young lady will excuse us for a bit, I've got something very important to tell you."

Supposing it to be some great racing secret, Moira decided to get it out of Fitzroy later on.

"I'll go over and look at the horses," she said. "Don't bother to come with me. But if there's anything exciting, don't leave me out of it."

Drawing Fitzroy out of the crowd, the trooper known as Bismarck spoke with great earnestness and with his mouth about an inch from Fitzroy's ear. ••••• It's the luck of the world you've come," he said, "I've got a big job on here. You know this Chinaman, Kum Yoon Jim, or Jimmy the Pat, or whatever they like to call him? Headquarters have got something on him at last, whether it's opium or receiving stolen goods, or defrauding the Customs, I don't know. But I'm expecting a wire to arrest him at any minute, and he might put up a very ugly scrap. He's all oil and butter while things go to suit him, but if anything goes wrong he'll draw a knife in a minute. He goes stone mad.

"I daresay you've heard that I've got me own way of dealin' with these rambunctious coves; but this chap is different. Most of 'em, I just ride up alongside 'em, slip the stirrup-iron out of the saddle as I jump off the horse, and I tell 'em that I want 'em. Then, if they look like showing fight I stun 'em first and read the charge to 'em afterwards. But I daren't do it with Jimmy the Pat. He's got so much money that if he got out of the charge he'd have the jacket off me for undue violence. I'm senior to you. so I can order you to assist me, or if you're not in the force I can call on you for assistance in the King's name. How do you feel on it, brother?"

Fitzroy did not take very long to make up his mind. Apart altogether from his personal grudge against the Chinaman over the interference with Moira's horse, he felt that here was a chance to make a name for himself. His only effort so far in the force had made him look like a considerable fool, but here he had a chance to wipe out all that and to leave the force in a blaze of glory.

"Right you are," he said. "I'd rather like to have a crack at this Chinaman. Let me have first go at him, and if he skittles me, then you can come in with the stirrup-iron. When does the balloon go up—when is the scrap supposed to start?"

Fishing out a telegram from the breast of his tunic, Bismarck proceeded to read it out:

"'Be prepared to arrest pickpocket.'" he read. "That's the code word for Jimmy. We daren't mention his name for fear it would leak out. 'Be prepared to arrest pickpocket on receipt further orders stop.' So you see I can't do anything till I get a later wire. But they must think they've got something on him at last, for I've got definite orders to arrest his mate and to keep him where Jimmy can't get at him. I expect they are going to put the third degree on his mate and see if he'll squeal before they take Jimmy in."

"Who's his mate?" said Fitzroy.

"A big disqualified trainer chap that they call Sandbag because he can drink such a lot. He's mixed up with Jimmy in the opium trade, and if he'll squeal we might hear something. Jimmy brought him up here to look after a horse they call Desire that they've got here to-day. There's a little stable-boy here that used to work in Sydney, and he says that he looked after this Desire when he was racing in Sydney. He says the horse's right name is Despair. He was a real crack, but he turned unmanageable at the barrier, so they refused his nominations.