The Australasian/1936/11/28/The Shearer's Colt

A six-furlong race is a hammer-and-tongs affair from the start, and the favourite—drawn 25 horses out—put up a gallant battle, but he had to strain every nerve over the first couple of furlongs to hold his position.

Sylvester and Snowfire jumped out smartly from positions near the rails and were racing on the inner side, while the favourite was racing on the outer circle. At the turn into the straight the three had come together and were racing abreast. It looked to be anybody's race. But the favourite's early efforts told their tale, and he was the first to crack up.

Then Sylvester was the cry; for, as usual, a lot of people had backed both the favourite and second favourite. At two furlongs from home a doleful howl went up as the jockey on Sylvester, noted for his ability to ride a finish with his hands, went for his whip and gave his mount a couple of sharp cuts down the shoulder. Sylvester made a game effort to answer the whip, but he was hopelessly outpaced, and Snowfire ran home an easy winner. Sylvester's jockey, not wishing to knock a game horse about, dropped his hands in the last couple of strides and finished second, beaten a length and a half, which might have been three lengths had Snowfire's rider so wished.

Moira and Fitzroy each won £60, and went into lunch bubbling with delight. In fact, with the selfishness of youth, they never thought of asking Red Fred what he had won. The truth did not come out until halfway through lunch.

Mr. Noall and some of his admirers were seated just opposite Red Fred and his party at the end of the long table—out of hearing of the real swells at the top of the table. One of the semi-vice-regal sisters started the trouble by saying:

"I don't suppose you backed the winner, Mr. Carstairs?"

Before Red Fred could answer, Mr. Noall chipped in.

"Of course he didn't." he said. "He'd back the horse from his own stable—Sylvester."

"No. I did,' said Red Fred, feeling that for once in a way he had distinguished himself. "I backed the winner. I won six hundred. Raynham told me not to back his horse. He told me to back Snowfire."

Here was a situation right after Mr. Noall's heart. A trainer had the second favourite in a race and he had told one of his patrons to back something else!

"Raynham told you! Well, I wonder what they will stand in this country. I thought that boy on Sylvester wasn't too keen at the finish. Did you see him drop his hands?"

Having the Irish sympathy for the under-dog Moira threw her hat into the ring and spoke without choosing her words.

"The boy on Sylvester hit him with the whip in the straight. He had no chance with the winner. Any fool could see that."

His experience as a platform speaker had made Mr. Noall a very difficult antagonist in a debate. He smiled tolerantly.

"Of course, young lady, as you say. any fool could see it. Some of these jockeys would fool anybody."

Not liking either his tone or his appearance—in fact, not liking anything about him—Moira returned to her lunch with the acid remark:

"I'm afraid you look at life through very dirty spectacles."

"I see some very dirty spectacles, if that's what you mean."

While this was going on. Fitzroy said nothing whatever, and applied himself industriously to his plate; but from under his brows he favoured Mr. Noall with the look that a fighting bull terrier gives to his opponent when the pair are led into the pit. Noticing this look, and knowing Fitzroy's temper, the Honourable Captain Salter thought he had better be the little diplomatist and patch up some sort of peace. One never knew what Fitzroy might do.

"Hard to say," he said. "Hard to say. Before I started ridin' I thought if there were six races there were six bally crimes to be detected. Absolutely! But after I'd ridden a bit, I wasn't so sure. Some people said I didn't ride my horse out in the Grand National. And, of course, any chap would give one of his ears to win a National."

Before the captain could enlarge on this subject His Excellency rose and the party broke up. The next race was the Leger, for which Sensation was voted a certainty, so Red Fred went down to see the trainer. ••••• They found Long Harry saddling the big horse with the greatest care, while Sensation, in no way excited, nibbled thoughtfully at the cardigan jacket of the boy at his head.

"He's home and dried," said Long Harry. "They won't bet on it. They're offering 6 to 4 that you can't place first and second. He's got two weight-for-age races next week, so I want to get him an easy race to-day. A lot of 'em think this horse can't sprint, so they'll run it as slow as they can and try to beat him in the run home. That's right into my barrow. I'm tellin' Jacobs to let 'em run the first mile at a walk if they like, and we'll show 'em if he can sprint or not."

"What'll run second to him, Mr. Raynham?" said Moira, whose £60 were burning a hole in her pocket. "I might have a bet on placing first and second."

"Daylight'll run second to him, miss. Biggest certainty ever you saw."

"But there's no horse in it called Daylight."

"No, miss. But there'll be daylight between him and the other horses," And with that he turned his back and went on testing the girths.

It is customary on the stage for the minor characters to prepare the way for the entrance of the star, and when the field of three-year-olds went out on the track, Sensation was kept back to the last. Some of them went up fighting for their heads, while others sidled like crabs, but Sensation trotted along by the rails like an old hack, taking no notice of the cheering mob a few feet away from him.

His coat glowed in the sun, and the play of his huge muscles could be seen at each stride. Wheeling for his canter he came down with his head in his chest, playing with the bit and disdaining to quicken his pace when another horse rushed past him. He pulled up at a touch of his rider's hand, and walked back to the starting-post with the reins lying loose on his neck, while his rider settled a stirrup-leather in its place.

When the barrier lifted, Sensation was pulled back last of the field of seven, and here he ran along at an easy swing, while some of the leaders were taking a lot out of themselves, springing off the ground and throwing their heads about as a protest against the slow pace,

"I wish they'd string out a bit," said Long Harry, who was watching the race with Sensation's owner. "I don't want him to have to come round a mob of horses at the turn, and I don't want him to come inside and get pocketed."

For the first half-mile a couple of blankets would have covered the field, but at last the two leaders wore out the arms, or the patience, of their riders and the field lengthened out just as Long Harry had wished. Providence, they say, is always on the side of the big battalions.

There was no real pace on until they had run a mile. The riders were obviously watching each other, for at the six-furlong post every horse jumped into top speed in a stride, and the real race was on. Sensation was still the last, and was giving as much as six or seven lengths to the leaders, and the trainers clicked their stopwatches just to see what pace the big horse could make over the last six furlongs.

There was no fighting for their heads now, the field were all hard at it. But without an effort the big chestnut horse, with his crimson-jacketed rider, seemed to glide past horse after horse. At three furlongs from home he had made up the six or seven lengths, and was on the flanks of the two leaders into the straight. A sprinter that had saved up his energies for the final dash made a run up to him at the distance, but he only lasted there for a couple of strides. Then, without apparently quickening his pace at all, the big horse drew away and won with the greatest ease by a clear three lengths.

The watches showed 1.11 for the last six furlongs of a Leger with 8.10 up.

When the next race came on Red Fred's trainer gave him peremptory order not to bet on it at all. But the Leger victory had given Fred a feeling of confidence, so he immediately went into the ring and took £200 to £10 about a horse because he saw one of the rats backing it. The word went round like lightning that "Bluey," as the crowd called him, had found another winner. (All red-haired men are called "Bluey" in Australia for some reason or other.) So the crowd got in behind Bluey and made this horse second favourite, to the mystification of the horse's owner and trainer. What is more, it won. As Red Fred went up to collect his winnings, one of the underworld called out to him:

"Good on you, Bluey. you saved my life!"

After all, it seemed fairly easy to be a hero.

At the end of the racing Fitzroy told Charley Stone to take Red Fred and to see that he did not get into any brawls, adding that he himself had a little business to attend to before he left the course.

He waited down near the motor-cars, and before long saw Mr. Noall walking by himself across the lawn. People were hurrying home, and no one took any notice as Fitzroy walked up to the embryo statesman and stood square in front of him:

"I want to see you a minute. I didn't like the way you talked at lunch, accusing my friend, Mr. Raynham, of pulling a horse."

A Machiavellian bit of diplomacy that, for he did not wish to drag a lady's name into the fracas. Mr. Noall's political training had taught him to be at times suave and at times dictatorial, so he gave Fitzroy a good hard push:

"Get out of my way, you're drunk. If you stop me I'll give you something you won't like."

Fitzroy dropped his hands by his sides and stuck out his face:

"Yes, go on. You have first hit at me."

Sure enough, the big man had a hit at him. Fitzroy ducked under it, and before any one could see how it happened he was kneeling on Mr. Noall and trying to force his jaws open with one hand and to thrust a racebook into his mouth with the other.

"Eat this, you tailor's dummy. East this, and see how you like it."

A couple of plainclothes policemen ran over from the car rank and pulled them apart. On learning that neither wished to take out a summons against the other, they started off in different directions and returned to their duties. Brawls of this sort were so common in their lives as to be hardly worth mentioning. Still, Trooper Smithers, an Australian, said in a bored way to his Irish colleague:

"Wot in 'ell do you suppose the little swell wanted to choke the big swell with his racebook for?"

"Searrch me," said Trooper O'Grady. "But I'll tell yez somethin.' I know the little felly. Him and me was in the depot at Brisbane together, and what he's doin' here in that rigout I don't know. Working the confidence game, I suppose. But if ye have to arrist him take another good man wid yez. He's a handful for any chew (two) men in Australia, that same easy-looking gentleman.

It is said that women are variable creatures. But they are models of consistency compared to a millionaire who has drifted, jelly-fish-like, on the tides of shearing, mustering, and lamb-marking, varied only by an occasional trip out prospecting. Such a man may roll his swag preparatory to starting on some enterprise in a due northerly direction, and may then meet a friend who persuades him to start on quite another enterprise due south.

Thus it was hardly to be wondered at that when Red Fred was called upon to make the decision to go to England, and to trust himself to a sea he had never even seen, he felt a sort of blind urge to remain where he was. He had settled down comfortably at the hotel, and had made friends there. It was, perhaps, the nearest approach to a home that he had ever known since he grew to manhood, and he did not like leaving it.

When Fitzroy opened the question of taking the horse to England, he thought that there would be little difficulty about it, as Sensation had been bought with that one object in view. He found, however, that since the Leger Red Fred's views had undergone a decided change.

"I don't know," he said when Fitzroy asked him when they would get away. "I don't know. We're doing pretty well here, ain't we? Harry says there's two thousand to be picked up in the weight-for-age races, and we'd laugh our heads off if we left a goldmine behind us and went away and bottomed on a duffer. I'll see about it. I've got to go down now and try on a suit o' clothes at that tailor Charley Stone put me on to. I don't want you to-day. You can go and see Moira if you like."

This accorded well with Fitzroy's own desires, and before long Moira and he were discussing their chances of getting to England. As is usual in such cases, they felt they were actuated by the highest and most altruistic motives, and like Boy Scouts they felt they must do their one good deed for the day. They must get Red Fred to England, whether he wanted to go or not.

"It's ridiculous," said Moira, "that he should want to keep a horse like Sensation in this country, picking up easy money, when it might win a big English race. Fred doesn't want the money. It's not fair to himself. It's not fair to the horse. He might win the Ascot Gold Cup with that horse and be presented to the King and everybody. And he wants to stop here. I'd like to murder that old trainer."

Fitzroy, too, felt it was his duty to get his employer away from Australia. He had sensed a subtle change in Red Fred's character in the last few days, and it behoved him to act quickly before things got worse.

"The boss," he said, "is not looking after himself. Takes no exercise. He's been shearing his hundred sheep a day, and now he just loafs round the pub and eats and drinks half his time. No feller could stand it. He put the wind up Charley Stone by going out to a big lunch with the boozehound of the Squatters' Financial Company. Charley thought they might get his business away from the Empire Pastoral, but luckily the boss got a load on board and he wanted to fight the Squatters' Financial chap in the car coming back. Then all sorts of take-downs have got wind of him, and they're hanging round the pub trying to get him to put his money into things. We must get him away somehow. There's only one thing he's afraid of. He thinks that Chinaman might come after him."

"Why is he afraid of the Chinaman?"

"Well, you know, these Chinamen are very bad medicine. They think a lot of what they call their face. The boss won two thousand off Jimmy the Pat, and I threw him about a bit, and altogether we made him look like a monkey. He's got to wipe that off somehow, even if he has to wipe off Red Fred. I can look after myself, but when I see a Chinaman coming down the street I cross the road and look into a shop window till the Chow goes past. I don't want a knife in my ribs. Anyhow, I can do without it."

"Perhaps we can scare the life out of Fred," said Moira hopefully. "And we could scare that trainer, too. I'm sure we ought to try it, even if we get into trouble over it. We simply can't let him stop here and run to seed like a public-house loafer. I've known Fred ever since I can remember, and he's got a heart of gold, that man," ••••• Between them they hatched a plan that at any rate had the virtue of originality. The first blow was struck when Red Fred received a letter with a Queensland post-mark. As a rule he just glanced at his letters and handed them either to the Empire Pastoral Company or the wastepaper basket. But this one was obviously something out of the ordinary run of letters. He was at breakfast eating an egg when he opened it. As he read it he put down a spoonful of egg untasted and emitted a hollow groan.

"Look at this, Fitz," he said. "That Chow! I thought he'd be after me."

The envelope contained merely a dirty crumpled sheet of common notepaper, on which the following message had been laboriously printed, apparently by some illiterate person:

"A well-wisher, eh! I wish he was a well-sinker. I'd give 'im a 'undred quid to sink a well and leave the Chow down it. What does the Chow want to get after me for? I didn't sling, him about like a bag of feathers. I didn't get his horse left at the post"—eyeing his secretary meanwhile as though he blamed him for everything, "I remember a Chinee cook once that put poison in the tea and nearly wiped out a whole shedful of shearers, just to ketch one man that had kicked his dog. I wonder is there a Chinee cook at this pub? I won't eat anything, only eggs and sardines, and drink ginger beer, till we get out of this. I better go out and tell Long Harry. That Chow might get after the horse, and I'd sooner he'd poison me than poison the horse. You go down and have a look if there's a Chow in the kitchen."

Fitzroy's investigations in the kitchen revealed a Chinese chef who greeted him with an affable smile, and Fitzroy wondered how Red Fred would receive the news that he was living at the mercy of a Chinese assassin. Fitzroy returned upstairs and sat down to wait for his boss. But when Red Fred returned all his fear had vanished. Like a celebrated English politician Red Fred took his opinion from the last man with whom he conversed. Long Harry had scoffed at the idea of there being any danger.

"He says it's all rot," said Red Fred. "He says it's some cove that wants to bluff me into givin' him a hundred quid to keep the Chows off me. Long Harry says to let you have your breakfast first, and if you're all right, then I'll be all right. Ring for a whisky and soda, Fitz. It's a bit early, but I knew coves up in Darwin that always drank gin and soda as soon as they'd finished their breakfasts, and they lived to be nearly a hundred. They can't scare me with their Chows."

Having missed with their first barrel, as it were, the mysterious writers of the anonymous letter made a new move. Just after the horses had come home from their exercise and the boys (who had been up since 4 o'clock) had retired to their bunks to have a sleep, a Chinaman might have been observed making his way up Long Harry's deserted stable-yard. In fact, he was observed. Mrs. Harry happened to come to the kitchen door with a rolling-pin in her hand and saw the Chinaman making for Sensation's box.

Having been born an O'Grady, the lady disdained to call for assistance. Instead, she tiptoed up the yard after the Chinaman and hit him a polthogue over the head with a rolling-pin. Down he went on his hands and knees, and as he fell a long-bladed knife dropped out of his clothes. At sight of the knife Mrs. Raynham went into a most successful fit of hysterics. Her yells split the air, while the Chinaman, after casting a dazed look about him, picked up the knife and ran like a redshank. Long Harry did not put in an appearance for some time. He said afterwards that he had mistaken Mrs. Raynham's shrieks for the whistle from the factory down the road.

The portly grocer, however, from next door came running into the yard just in time to meet the Chinaman face to face. The grocer spread out his arms and pretty well blocked the way, but the Chinaman threw his arms round the grocer's legs and tossed him over his head with as little exertion as though he were lifting a straw man. Then he darted like a rabbit round the corner and jumped into a racing car that was cruising slowly along, with a veiled lady at the wheel. In a second there was nothing but a streak of dust to show that a car had been there.

Of course the police and the press were hot on the scent of this outrage. But they got very little out of Long Harry. That worthy said it was all rot; that some poor, inoffensive Chinaman had came into the yard to see about buying the stable manure, and his wife had "woodened" him without giving him a chance to explain. This did not suit Mrs. Harry at all. She gloried in the notoriety of interviews with the police, and posed for the press photographers with a rolling-pin in her hand. Just to assert her importance, she relapsed into hysterics every two hours. Her female friends told Long Harry that he was an unfeeling brute and that he should get the doctor to her.