Robbery Under Arms [213]
yer Darkie.' And as old Jacob made one last effort, and landed him a winner by a clear head, there was a roar went up from the whole crowd that might have been heard at Nulla Mountain.
Starlight jumps off the drag and leads the old horse into the weighing yard. The steward says `Dismount.' No fear of old Jacob getting down before he heard that. He takes his saddle in his lap and gets into the scales. `Weight,' says the clerk. Then the old fellow mounts and rides past the judge's box. `I declare Mr. Benton's horse Darkie to be the winner of the Turon Grand Handicap, Bronzewing second horse, Hotspur third,' says he.
Well, there was great cheering and hollering, though none knew exactly whose horse he was or anything about him; but an Australian crowd always likes to see the best horse win -- and they like fair play -- so Darkie was cheered over and over again, and old Jacob too.
Aileen stroked and petted him and patted his neck and rubbed his nose, and you'd raly thought the old horse knew her, he seemed so gentle-like. Then the Commissioner came down and said Mrs. Hautley, the police magistrate's wife, and some other ladies wanted to see the horse that had won the race. So he was taken over there and admired and stroked till old Jacob got quite crusty.
`It's an odd thing, Dawson,' says the Commissioner, `nobody here knows this horse, where he was bred, or anything about him. Such a grand animal as he is, too! I wish Morringer could have seen him; he's always raving about horses. How savage he'll be to have missed all the fun!'
`He's a horse you don't see every day,' says Bill Dawson. `I'll give a couple of hundred for him right off.'
`Not for sale at present,' says old Jacob, looking like a cast-iron image. `I'll send ye word when he is.'
`All right,' says Mr. Dawson. `What a shoulder, what legs, what loins he has! Ah! well, he'll be weighted out now, and you will be glad to sell him soon.'
`Our heads won't ache then,' says Jacob, as he turns round and rides away.
`Very neat animal, shows form,' drawls Starlight. `Worth three hundred in the shires for a hunter; if he can jump, perhaps more; but depends on his manners -- must have manners in the hunting-field, Dawson, you know.'
`Manners or not,' says Bill Dawson, `it's my opinion he could have won that race in a canter. I must find out more about him and buy him if I can.'
`I'll go you halves if you like,' says Starlight. `I weally believe him to be a good animal.'
Just then up rides Warrigal. He looks at the old horse as if he had never seen him before, nor us neither. He rides close by the heads of Mr. Dawson's team, and as he does so his hat falls off, by mistake, of course. He jumps off and picks it up, and rides slowly down towards the tent.
It was the signal to clear. Something was up.
I rode back to town with Aileen and Gracey; said good-bye -- a hard matter it was, too -- and sloped off to where my horse was, and was out of sight of Turon in twenty minutes.
Starlight hails a cabby (he told me this afterwards) and gets him to drive him over to the inn where he was staying, telling the Dawsons he'd have the wine put in ice for the dinner, that he wanted to send off a letter to Sydney by the post, and he'd be back on the course in an hour in good time for the last race.
In about half-an-hour back comes the same cabman and puts a note into Bill Dawson's hand. He looks at it, stares, swears a bit, and then crumples it up and puts it into his pocket.
Just as it was getting dark, and the last race just run, back comes Sir Ferdinand and all the police. They'd ridden hard, as their horses showed, and Sir Ferdinand (they say) didn't look half as good-natured as he generally did.
`You've lost a great meeting, Morringer,' says the Commissioner. `Great pity you had to be off just when you did. But that's just like these infernal scoundrels of bush-rangers. They always play up at the most inconvenient time. How did you get on with them?'
`Get on with them?' roars Sir Ferdinand, almost making a hole in
Starlight jumps off the drag and leads the old horse into the weighing yard. The steward says `Dismount.' No fear of old Jacob getting down before he heard that. He takes his saddle in his lap and gets into the scales. `Weight,' says the clerk. Then the old fellow mounts and rides past the judge's box. `I declare Mr. Benton's horse Darkie to be the winner of the Turon Grand Handicap, Bronzewing second horse, Hotspur third,' says he.
Well, there was great cheering and hollering, though none knew exactly whose horse he was or anything about him; but an Australian crowd always likes to see the best horse win -- and they like fair play -- so Darkie was cheered over and over again, and old Jacob too.
Aileen stroked and petted him and patted his neck and rubbed his nose, and you'd raly thought the old horse knew her, he seemed so gentle-like. Then the Commissioner came down and said Mrs. Hautley, the police magistrate's wife, and some other ladies wanted to see the horse that had won the race. So he was taken over there and admired and stroked till old Jacob got quite crusty.
`It's an odd thing, Dawson,' says the Commissioner, `nobody here knows this horse, where he was bred, or anything about him. Such a grand animal as he is, too! I wish Morringer could have seen him; he's always raving about horses. How savage he'll be to have missed all the fun!'
`He's a horse you don't see every day,' says Bill Dawson. `I'll give a couple of hundred for him right off.'
`Not for sale at present,' says old Jacob, looking like a cast-iron image. `I'll send ye word when he is.'
`All right,' says Mr. Dawson. `What a shoulder, what legs, what loins he has! Ah! well, he'll be weighted out now, and you will be glad to sell him soon.'
`Our heads won't ache then,' says Jacob, as he turns round and rides away.
`Very neat animal, shows form,' drawls Starlight. `Worth three hundred in the shires for a hunter; if he can jump, perhaps more; but depends on his manners -- must have manners in the hunting-field, Dawson, you know.'
`Manners or not,' says Bill Dawson, `it's my opinion he could have won that race in a canter. I must find out more about him and buy him if I can.'
`I'll go you halves if you like,' says Starlight. `I weally believe him to be a good animal.'
Just then up rides Warrigal. He looks at the old horse as if he had never seen him before, nor us neither. He rides close by the heads of Mr. Dawson's team, and as he does so his hat falls off, by mistake, of course. He jumps off and picks it up, and rides slowly down towards the tent.
It was the signal to clear. Something was up.
I rode back to town with Aileen and Gracey; said good-bye -- a hard matter it was, too -- and sloped off to where my horse was, and was out of sight of Turon in twenty minutes.
Starlight hails a cabby (he told me this afterwards) and gets him to drive him over to the inn where he was staying, telling the Dawsons he'd have the wine put in ice for the dinner, that he wanted to send off a letter to Sydney by the post, and he'd be back on the course in an hour in good time for the last race.
In about half-an-hour back comes the same cabman and puts a note into Bill Dawson's hand. He looks at it, stares, swears a bit, and then crumples it up and puts it into his pocket.
Just as it was getting dark, and the last race just run, back comes Sir Ferdinand and all the police. They'd ridden hard, as their horses showed, and Sir Ferdinand (they say) didn't look half as good-natured as he generally did.
`You've lost a great meeting, Morringer,' says the Commissioner. `Great pity you had to be off just when you did. But that's just like these infernal scoundrels of bush-rangers. They always play up at the most inconvenient time. How did you get on with them?'
`Get on with them?' roars Sir Ferdinand, almost making a hole in