Robbery Under Arms Rolf Boldrewood (best way to read an ebook .TXT) đ
- Author: Rolf Boldrewood
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âThis is a dashed queer country in some ways, and with deuced strange people in it, too, as youâll find by the time youâve had your colonial experience,â says Bill Dawson; âbut there goes the saddling-bell!â
The course had 20,000 people on it now if there was one. About a dozen horses stood stripped for the race, and the betting men were yelling out the odds as we got close enough to the stand to hear them. We had a good look at the lot. Three or four good-looking ones among them, and one or two flyers that had got in light as usual. Rainbow was nowhere about. Darkie was on the card, but no one seemed to know where he was or anything about him. We expected heâd start at 20 to 1, but somehow it leaked out that he was entered by old Jacob Benton, and that acted as a damper on the layers of the odds. âOld Jakeâs generally there or thereabouts. If heâs a duffer, itâs the first one heâs brought to the post. Why donât the old varmint show up?â
This was what I heard about and round, and we began to get uneasy ourselves, for fear that something might have happened to him or the horse. About 8 or 9 to 1 was all we could get, and that we took over and over again.
As the horses came up the straight, one after the other, having their pipe-openers, youâd have thought no race had been run that week, to see the interest all the people took in it. My word, Australia is a horsey country, and no mistake. With the exception of Arabia, perhaps, as they tell us about, I canât think as thereâs a country on the face of the earth where the peopleâs fonder of horses. From the time theyâre able to walk, boys and girls, theyâre able to ride, and ride well. See the girls jump on barebacked, with nothing but a gunny-bag under âem, and ride over logs and stones, through scrub and forest, down gullies, or along the side of a mountain. And a horse race, donât they love it? Wouldnât they give their souls almostâ âand they do often enoughâ âfor a real flyer, a thoroughbred, able to run away from everything in a country race. The horse is a fatal animal to us natives, and many a manâs ruin starts from a bit of horseflesh not honestly come by.
But our racing ainât going forward, and the dayâs passing fast. As I said, everybody was looking at the horsesâ âcoming along with the rush of the thoroughbred when heâs âon his topâ for condition; his coat like satin, and his legs like iron. There were lots of the bush girls on horseback, and among them I soon picked out Maddie Barnes. She was dressed in a handsome habit and hat. How sheâd had time to put them on since the wedding I couldnât make out, but women manage to dress faster some times than others. Sheâd wasted no time anyhow.
She was mounted on a fine, tall, upstanding chestnut, and Joe Moreton was riding alongside of her on a good-looking bay, togged out very superior also. Maddie was in one of her larking humours, and gave Joe quite enough to do to keep time with her.
âI donât see my horse here yet,â she says to Joe, loud enough for me to hear; but she knew enough not to talk to me or pretend to know me. âI want to back him for a fiver. I hope that old Jacob hasnât gone wrong.â
âWhat do you call your horse?â says Joe. âI didnât know your father had one in this race.â
âNo fear,â says Maddie; âonly this horse was exercised for a bit near our place. Heâs a regular beauty, and there isnât a horse in this lot fit to see the way he goes.â
âWho does he belong to?â says Joe.
âThatâs a secret at present,â says she; âbut youâll know some day, when youâre a bit older, if you behave yourself. Heâs Mr. Jacob Bentonâs Darkie now, and you bet on him to the coat on your back.â
âIâll see what I think of him first,â says Joe, who didnât fancy having a horse rammed down his throat like that.
âIf you donât like him you donât like me,â says Maddie. âSo mind that, Joe Moreton.â
Just as she spoke there was a stir in the crowd, and old Jacob came along across the course leading a horse with a sheet on, just as easygoing as if heâd a day to spare. One of the stewards rode up to him, and asked him what he meant by being so late.
The old chap pulls out his watch. âYouâll stick to your advertised time, wonât you? Iâve time to weigh, time to pull off this here sheet and my overcoat, time to mount, and a minute to spare. I never was late in my life, governor.â
Most of the riding mob was down with the racehorses, a distance or so from the stand, where they was to start, the course being over two miles. So the weighing yard and stand was pretty well empty, which was just what old Jacob expected.
The old man walks over to the scales and has himself weighed all regular, declaring a pound overweight for fear of accidents. He gets down as quiet and easy as possible to the starting point, and just in time to walk up steadily with the other horses, when down goes the starterâs flag, and âOffâ was the word. Starlight and the Dawsons were down there waiting for him. As they went away one of the ringmen says, âTen to one against Darkie. I lay Darkie.â âDone,â says Starlight; âwill you do it in tens?â âAll right,â says the âbook.â âIâll take you,â says both the Dawsons, and he entered their names.
Theyâd taken all they could get the night before at the hotel; and as no one knew anything about Darkie,
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