Chapter VI.
Good Old Bess.
Supper was over at Shingle Hut, and we were all seated round thefire--all except Joe. He was mousing. He stood on the sofa with oneear to the wall in a listening attitude, and brandished a table-fork.There were mice--mobs of them--between the slabs and the paper--layersof newspapers that had been pasted one on the other for years untilthey were an inch thick; and whenever Joe located a mouse he drove thefork into the wall and pinned it--or reckoned he did.
Dad sat pensively at one corner of the fire-place--Dave at the otherwith his elbows on his knees and his chin resting in his palms.
"Think you could ride a race, Dave?" asked Dad.
"Yairs," answered Dave, without taking his eyes off the fire, or hischin from his palms--"could, I suppose, if I'd a pair o' lighter boots'n these."
Again they reflected.
Joe triumphantly held up the mutilated form of a murdered mouse andinvited the household to "Look!" No one heeded him.
"Would your Mother's go on you?"
"Might," and Dave spat into the fire.
"Anyway," Dad went on, "we must have a go at this handicap with the oldmare; it's worth trying for, and, believe me, now! she'll surprise afew of their flash hacks, will Bess."
"Yairs, she can go all right." And Dave spat again into the fire.
"GO! I've never known anything to keep up with her. Why, bless mysoul, seventeen years ago, when old Redwood owned her, there was n't ahorse in the district could come within coo-ee of her. All she wantsis a few feeds of corn and a gallop or two, and mark my words she'llshow some of them the way."
Some horse-races were being promoted by the shanty-keeper at theOverhaul--seven miles from our selection. They were the first of thekind held in the district, and the stake for the principal event wasfive pounds. It was n't because Dad was a racing man or subject toturf hallucinations in any way that he thought of preparing Bess forthe meeting. We sadly needed those five pounds, and, as Dad put it, ifthe mare could only win, it would be an easier and much quicker way ofmaking a bit of money than waiting for a crop to grow.
Bess was hobbled and put into a two-acre paddock near the house. Weput her there because of her wisdom. She was a chestnut, full ofvillainy, an absolutely incorrigible old rogue. If at any time she waswanted when in the grass paddock, it required the lot of us from Daddown to yard her, as well as the dogs, and every other dog in theneighbourhood. Not that she had any brumby element in her--she wouldhave been easier to yard if she had--but she would drive steadilyenough, alone or with other horses, until she saw the yard, when shewould turn and deliberately walk away. If we walked to head her shebeat us by half a length; if we ran she ran, and stopped when westopped. That was the aggravating part of her! When it was only to goto the store or the post-office that we wanted her, we could havewalked there and back a dozen times before we could run her down; but,somehow, we generally preferred to work hard catching her rather thanwalk.
When we had spent half the day hunting for the curry-comb, which we didn't find, Dad began to rub Bess down with a corn-cob--a shelledone--and trim her up a bit. He pulled her tail and cut the hair offher heels with a knife; then he gave her some corn to eat, and told Joehe was to have a bundle of thistles cut for her every night. Now andagain, while grooming her, Dad would step back a few paces and lookupon her with pride.
"There's great breeding in the old mare," he would say, "greatbreeding; look at the shoulder on her, and the loin she has; and wheredid ever you see a horse with the same nostril? Believe me, she'llsurprise a few of them!"
We began to regard Bess with profound respect; hitherto we had beenaccustomed to pelt her with potatoes and blue-metal.
The only thing likely to prejudice her chance in the race, Dadreckoned, was a small sore on her back about the size of a foal's foot.She had had that sore for upwards of ten years to our knowledge, butDad hoped to have it cured before the race came off with anever-failing remedy he had discovered--burnt leather and fat.
Every day, along with Dad, we would stand on the fence near the houseto watch Dave gallop Bess from the bottom of the lane to thebarn--about a mile. We could always see him start, but immediatelyafter he would disappear down a big gully, and we would see nothingmore of the gallop till he came to within a hundred yards of us. Andwould n't Bess bend to it once she got up the hill, and fly past withDave in the stirrups watching her shadow!--when there was one: she wasa little too fine to throw a shadow always. And when Dave and Bess hadgot back and Joe had led her round the yard a few times, Dad would rubthe corn-cob over her again and apply more burnt-leather and fat to herback.
On the morning preceding the race Dad decided to send Bess over threemiles to improve her wind. Dave took her to the crossing at thecreek--supposed to be three miles from Shingle Hut, but it might havebeen four or it might have been five, and there was a stony ridge onthe way.
We mounted the fence and waited. Tommy Wilkie came along riding aplough-horse. He waited too.
"Ought to be coming now," Dad observed, and Wilkie got excited. Hesaid he would go and wait in the gully and race Dave home. "Race himhome!" Dad chuckled, as Tommy cantered off, "he'll never see the wayBess goes." Then we all laughed.
Just as someone cried "Here he is!" Dave turned the corner into thelane, and Joe fell off the fence and pulled Dad with him. Dad damnedhim and scrambled up again as fast as he could. After a while TommyWilkie hove in sight amid a cloud of dust. Then came Dave at scarcelyfaster than a trot, and flogging all he knew with a piece of greenhideplough-rein. Bess was all-out and floundering. There was about twohundred yards yet to cover. Dave kept at her--THUD! THUD! Slower andslower she came. "Damn the fellow!" Dad said; "what's he beating herfor?" "Stop it, you fool!" he shouted. But Dave sat down on her forthe final effort and applied the hide faster and faster. Dad crunchedhis teeth. Once--twice--three times Bess changed her stride, thenstruck a branch-root of a tree that projected a few inches aboveground, and over she went--CRASH! Dave fell on his head and lay spreadout, motionless. We picked him up and carried him inside, and whenMother saw blood on him she fainted straight off without waiting toknow if it were his own or not. Both looked as good as dead; but Dad,with a bucket of water, soon brought them round again.
It was scarcely dawn when we began preparing for a start to the races.Dave, after spending fully an hour trying in vain to pull on Mother'selastic-side boots, decided to ride in his own heavy bluchers. We wentwith Dad in the dray. Mother would n't go; she said she did n't wantto see her son get killed, and warned Dad that if anything happened theblame would for ever be on his head.
We arrived at the Overhaul in good time. Dad took the horse out of thedray and tied him to a tree. Dave led Bess about, and we stood andwatched the shanty-keeper unpacking gingerbeer. Joe asked Dad forsixpence to buy some, but Dad had n't any small change. We remained infront of the booth through most of the day, and ran after any corksthat popped out and handed them in again to the shanty-keeper. He didn't offer us anything--not a thing!
"Saddle up for the Overhaul Handicap!" was at last sung out, and Dad,saddle on arm, advanced to where Dave was walking Bess about. Theysaddled up and Dave mounted, looking as pale as death.
"I don't like ridin' in these boots a bit," he said, with a quiver inhis voice.
"Wot's up with 'em?" Dad asked.
"They're too big altogether."
"Well, take 'em off then!"
Dave jumped down and pulled them off-leaving his socks on.
More than a dozen horses went out, and when the starter said "Off!" didn't they go! Our eyes at once followed Bess. Dave was at her rightfrom the jump--the very opposite to what Dad had told him. In thefirst furlong she put fully twenty yards of daylight between herselfand the field--she came after the field. At the back of the course youcould see the whole of Kyle's selection and two of Jerry Keefe'shay-stacks between her and the others. We did n't follow her anyfurther.
After the race
was won and they had cheered the winner, Dad was n't tobe found anywhere.
Dave sat on the grass quite exhausted. "Ain't y' goin' to pull thesaddle off?" Joe asked.
"No," he said. "I AIN'T. You don't want everyone to see her back, doyou?"
Joe wished he had sixpence.
About an hour afterwards Dad came staggering along arm-in-arm withanother man--an old fencing-mate of his, so he made out.
"Thur yar," he said, taking off his hat and striking Bess on the rumpwith it; "besh bred mare in the worl'."
The fencing-mate looked at her, but did n't say anything; he could n't.
"Eh?" Dad went on; "say sh'ain't? L'ere-ever y' name is--betcher poundsh'is."
Then a jeering and laughing crowd gathered round, and Dave wished hehad n't come to the races.
"She ain't well," said a tall man to Dad--"short in her gallops." Thena short, bulky individual without whiskers shoved his face up intoDad's and asked him if Bess was a mare or a cow. Dad became excited,and only that old Anderson came forward and took him away there musthave been a row.
Anderson put him in the dray and drove it home to Shingle Hut.
Dad reckons now that there is nothing in horse-racing, and declares ita fraud. He says, further, that an honest man, by training and racinga horse, is only helping to feed and fatten the rogues and vagabondsthat live on the sport.