Craig Bellshaw soon heard who was the drawer of Barellan in the great Melbourne Cup Sweep. Glen Leigh held the ticket. He smiled wickedly. He had found out that Glen had been a welcome visitor at Mrs. Prevost's. So this was the man who had supplanted him. He wished him joy of his bargain; he'd find it pretty expensive. No doubt it was Leigh who called when he, Bellshaw, was ordered out of the house. If he had only known he would have enlightened him there and then; he intended doing so at the first favourable opportunity. He'd make it particularly hot and sultry for Mrs. Prevost, put a spoke in her wheel that even Glen Leigh would not care to try and pull out. A keeper of the fence, a common showman, a rider of buckjumpers, to be ousted by such a man—it made Craig Bellshaw writhe. He did not call at Sea View before he left for Melbourne; there was time enough. He'd put in an appearance when he had fairly choked Leigh off, made him sick of the whole business. He hated him, he hated Mrs. Prevost for throwing him over, and he vowed vengeance against them. Leigh had thwarted him in many ways when he had been on the fence. Bellshaw recalled how on one occasion he had given him the lie direct at a meeting held at Boonara, and had proved his statement up to the hilt. This had lessened the owner of Mintaro's prestige considerably, and he had not forgiven it.

Glen Leigh had drawn Barellan. Bellshaw chuckled, a curious gurgling sound, more like the growling of a dog. This decided him. He had returned to Sydney after the Caulfield Cup; he didn't care for Melbourne. He took train back again as soon as he heard who had drawn Barellan in the sweep.

He always stayed at Scott's. He walked there from Spencer Street Station, along Collins Street.

"Hallo, Bellshaw, back again?"

It was Nick Gerard who, for a wonder, was in that part of the town.

"You, Nick. What's the news?"

"I expect you know it all; you're never much behind the times where your interests are concerned. By Gad, perhaps you don't know; it only happened this morning. When did you arrive?"

"I've just come in by the express. What's up?"

"Your horse, Barellan."

"Well?"

"He went lame on the track at Flemington this morning, limped away badly, and it's the week before the race. He'll not have much time to pull round. I'm sorry for you. It's deuced bad luck, but you can stand it. I'm more sorry for that chap, Glen Leigh, who drew him in the sweep. It's rough on him. I like him; he's the best roughrider I ever saw. I'm open to bet there isn't a bucker in Australia can get rid of him in a quarter of an hour. I told him I'd bet a level thousand, two thousand if anybody wanted it, and give him half if he won," said Nick.

"My horse lame!" exclaimed Bellshaw, ignoring the latter part of Nick's remarks.

"Dead lame, from all accounts. I didn't see him, but I met Luke Nicholl in Bourke Street, and he told me. He was on his back, so he ought to know," said the bookmaker.

"Damn him! He'd no right to say anything about it, especially to a bookmaker," cried Bellshaw angrily.

"And pray why not? What have I done? The fact will be in all the evening papers. Most men I met at the Club were talking about it."

"Were they? It's a den of thieves," almost shouted Bellshaw, in his anger.

"You're talking rot," said Nick, who knew his man. He also had a fairly thick skin, and such remarks failed to penetrate it. "Have you been playing 'solo' all the way from Sydney and losing, or what's ruffled you?"

"I never play 'solo' or hazards," sneered Bellshaw.

"Well, I do, and I'm considered a fairly good hand at the former. As to hazards, I'll not say much about that. I'm out on the green cloth, out a biggish sum, but I can't leave off. It's in my blood. I must throw the dice sometimes," said Nick.

"More fool you. Where are you going?"

"To the Federal."

Bellshaw smiled grimly.

"What have you got there? Is she nice? bewitching? or just an ordinary filly?" he asked.

"It's a man, a dashed clever fellow, but he's one failing, and it's got fairly hold of him since he's been in Melbourne this time. I've known him come here and never touch a drop the whole blessed time, but he's been knocked out this trip. I'd like to find out the beggar who led him on. I'd give him a piece of my mind," said Nick hotly.

"Haven't you enough to do without wasting your time over a boozer?"

"He's always been a friend of mine; he's done all his expenses in, and hasn't a bean. I mean to see him through, if he'll promise to keep straight until the meeting's over."

"And do you suppose he will?" sneered Bellshaw.

"Yes, if he gives me his word," replied Nick.

"You're blessed with an uncommon amount of faith," said Bellshaw.

"And you've got none, not even in yourself. If you'd any pluck you'd not squeal because Barellan's gone lame. He may pull round. Hadwin's a clever man with dicky horses."

"He's an ass or he'd not have galloped the horse to a standstill. I told him he was giving him too much work."

"I'm more sorry for him than you," said the bookmaker.

Bellshaw laughed cynically, ignored the remark and asked, "Who's your sick friend at the Federal?"

"Jerry Makeshift, of 'The Sketch,' one of the best, the very best, a jewel with only one flaw in it."

"A gem of the first water, with whiskey in it," jeered Bellshaw.

"And supposing he is? That's better than being a grinding, snarling, miserable money-grubber," retorted Nick.

"Who's in a bad temper now?" asked Bellshaw.

"You're enough to rile a parson," said Nick.

"I never tried. I don't know much about 'em. I haven't got a chaplain at Mintaro."

"By all accounts you ought to have."

"What for?"

"To marry you," said Nick laughing.

Bellshaw swore and left him. Nick looked after him.

"He's a rotter if ever there was one, but he's been straight with me so far, and he'd better continue to walk the line. The first time he steps off it I'll push him right down," he thought, then went into the Federal.

"Is Mr. Makeshift in?" he asked the young lady presiding over the entry book in the desk, on the right hand side near the door.

"Oh, it's you, Mr. Gerard. Yes, he's in. He's been asking for you," and she told him where to find him.

Nick ascended the stairs, knocked at the door.

"Come in," said a thick voice.

Nick entered and found Jerry struggling with a sketch.

"I don't feel a bit humorous," said Jerry.

"You're a pretty specimen," began Nick.

"Look here, Old Nick, if you've come here to upbraid me I don't want to see you. What I want is ten pounds to see me through."

Nick laughed.

"I'll let you have it if you promise to keep all right."

"Snakes alive. You don't suppose I want to be sacked, do you?" exclaimed Jerry.

"I'd be sorry if you were, so would thousands of people. We'd all miss you, Jerry. 'The Sketch' wouldn't be the same paper," answered Nick.

"That's awfully good of you," said the repentant Jerry. "It means a lot to me. I'll not go back on you, Nick, I promise you, and you shall have some good stuff to amuse you next week."

"That's right, old boy. Buck up. Here's the cash. Have you heard the latest?"

"I haven't been out for days."

"Barellan's lame; Nicholl told me this morning. I've just met Bellshaw. He's in a towering rage, cursing everybody, and everything. He can handle some language when he likes. He's a heavyweight at it," said Nick.

"Bellshaw's a beast," replied Jerry. "I'm not sorry for him, but I am for Leigh and Hadwin."

"So am I, and I told him so," said Nick.

"What'll happen?" asked Jerry.

"I suppose he'll scratch him if there's no chance of getting him to the post."

"Lame horses have gone to the post and won a Melbourne Cup," said Jerry.

"I'd sooner have one with four legs sound."

"I say, Nick?"

"Yes."

"What do you fancy?"

"If Barellan gets right I think he'll win."

"And if not?"

"Roland."

"The Caulfield Cup winner?"

"Yes. He's a good horse—better than folks imagine."

"But his penalty?"

"He's a weight carrier. His trainer says he'd a stone in hand at Caulfield."

"That settles it," said Jerry.