Glen's thoughts wandered. The heat and excitement made him drowsy. For a few minutes he dozed, and as he did so his mind went back to the days when he was a keeper of the fence, on the border line between New South Wales and Queensland. Surrounded by thousands on Flemington course he slumbered peacefully, as men will when overcome with some powerful feeling, that acts like a drug, and for a few minutes there is oblivion.

His thoughts wandered far away. He was back once more on the glittering wire fence, with Ping, and Spotty, waiting there in the blazing heat for his mate to meet him and compare notes. There had been no rain for months; everything was parched, and dried up. He saw thousands of dead rabbits, and sheep. The stench seemed to be in his nostrils. The scene changed. He was looking in at his hut and saw the woman on the bed. In a few seconds he went through the struggle for a life again, the ride to Boonara, the tussle for brandy with Bill Bigs, Jim's arrival, and keeping watch, Spotty's attack; then the convalescence and the journey to Sydney. His meeting with Mrs. Prevost, Bellshaw at Mintaro, the search and capture of buckjumpers, Lin Soo, The Savage, the show, were all jumbled up together when he came out of his temporary swoon with a start, rubbed his eyes, and stared round him at the bustling scene, hardly daring to believe he was not back in reality on the fence. He gave a sigh of relief, and was wide awake again. He could not have been asleep for more than five minutes, and he had gone through the experiences of half a lifetime. It was strange. He had not quite shaken it off when the horses came out of the paddock on to the track, and the sight caused the past to vanish.

All eyes were turned on them as they cantered down the course to the starting post. There were thirty-one runners; it was a big field, and half of them were considered to have chances.

Jack, knocked out to a hundred to one, was first out, his jockey wearing a green jacket, yellow belt and cap; then came half a dozen more in a cluster. Isaac, the Derby winner, passed, going in great style. A tremendous cheer greeted Roland, the favourite. His owner's black jacket, white sleeves, and red cap were popular; the colours were always out to win. Painter, Plume, and Out Back followed, then Glen saw the sky-blue jacket and red cap, and his heart beat rapidly. Barellan went slowly at first, then burst into a gallop, pulling hard, reaching for his head, but Nicholl would not let him go. Glen watched him through his glasses, until he reached the post, thinking how much depended upon him. Barellan was carrying his fortunes. If he won what a change there would be in his life. If Jerry had not suggested his buying a ticket probably the opportunity would have gone by. Certainly he must be remembered if Barellan won. Had he not bought the ticket, and, with it, luck?

He looked round. All faces, thousands of them, were turned in one direction, watching the horses at the post, waiting for the signal when they would be dispatched on their journey. There was not much delay; they were well-trained. The starter had the jockeys under control. He was an autocrat, his powers great. It went ill with those who disobeyed him.

They were off; a terrific shout proclaimed it. The race for the great stake had commenced. What Glen Leigh felt at that moment he hardly knew. He had a hazy idea something was going to happen that would dash all his hopes. He shook off the feeling and determined to take a hopeful view of the situation.

Jack was making the pace. He had a light weight. His jockey was told to go ahead and wear the field down; the little fellow was nothing loth to do so; for one thing, he would be out of harm's way, and be in no danger of getting shut in. Jack was a dull grey horse, not a brilliant performer by any means, although on one or two occasions he had shown a turn of speed. There could be no doubt he was on his best behaviour, for, as they passed the stand, he was half a dozen lengths ahead of his field. Glen looked at each horse as they swept past; there was Barellan in the middle division, on the rails, going at an even pace; Roland, the favourite, was just in front of him. Close behind came Isaac, and Mackay; he was in good company.

Round the bend they swept, a cheer greeting them from Tattersalls' stand. Jack spread out, increasing his lead as they entered the back stretch. Half-way along the field closed up. There was not a long tail. It was a pretty sight, thirty-one bright colours showing up, glinting in the sunlight. The sheds were reached when racing began in earnest, for no laggards here had any chance of success.

Glen's glasses were levelled on the sky-blue jacket. He wondered when Nicholl would make a forward move. He became anxious. Was he lying too far back? Ought he not to be nearer the front? Why did he let Jack get so far ahead? These and sundry other questions jostled each other in Glen's mind.

Bill Bigs, and Jim, were standing together on the terrace. They had a fair view of the race.

"Jack's got a lead on them," said Bill.

"He'll give way before long," replied Jim.

"Don't you be too sure, young man," said someone behind him. "I've seen Jack do a good couple of miles several times lately."

"You don't think he'll win?" asked Bill.

"I won't go so far as that, but I reckon he'll put up a good fight," answered the stranger: then asked, "What have you backed?"

"Barellan," said Bill.

"A friend of mine's on him. He fancies him a lot. Knows his owner, I believe."

"So do I. He's not much to know," remarked Bill.

The stranger laughed.

"He is rather unpopular," he said.

"Look!" cried Jim. "Barellan and the favourite are going up."

Glen Leigh saw the move on Nicholl's part. His heart was in his mouth. The jockey had just squeezed Barellan through on the rails and the favourite had to go on the outside. As they neared the home turn the crowd shouted. The names of half a dozen horses rang out clearly over the course.

Jack was first into the straight. He had made all the running and was still going strong. Glen wondered if they would get on terms with him.

Isaac, finding an opening, dashed through. The Derby winner was bound to be thereabouts. He had run well and was coming out at the right time; his rider's pink jacket and white cap showed conspicuously.

Mackay's jockey pushed his mount and ran into third place, behind Jack and Isaac. They were all in the straight now, thirty-one runners, and the centre lot, numbering about a score, were all of a heap. The jackets looked bunched together, a many-hued mass of colour.

Barellan lost his position on the rails as they rounded the bend. He was not forced out but ran wide. Nicholl, taken by surprise at this move, thought it must be his leg pained him, and he wanted more room. He grew anxious. There was a slight faltering on Barellan's part. He must be nursed carefully or he might break down, and nursing at this critical point, when every horse with a chance was making a run, spelt defeat, being left behind. As it was Barellan fell back when he ought to have come into the front rank.

Glen Leigh's hand shook as he held his glasses. The sky-blue jacket was right away at the end of the middle division. Barellan's chance looked forlorn. His hopes were shattered; the thousands vanished into thin air; it was what he might have expected. How could he win with only a sovereign invested? It was absurd on the face of it. He was foolish to buoy himself with false hopes. He had raised a mirage in which he saw happiness and full content. Now it vanished and would never appear again.

"It is all up," he muttered. "I was a fool to think I could win such a sum."

"Hang it all, where's that beastly blue jacket got to?" said Bill.

"Right away back," returned Jim. "We're done. I'm sorry for Glen."

It was with mingled feelings Bellshaw saw Barellan fall back; he wanted to win a Melbourne Cup, at the same time he wished Leigh to lose his sweep money. He hardly knew which feeling was the stronger. If Barellan were beaten he would have the satisfaction of knowing Leigh had been done out of thousands and there was a chance that he, Bellshaw, might win the Cup another time.

Ivor Hadwin guessed why Barellan ran wide and lost his place at the bend. It was the strain on his bound foot which caused it; he ran out to ease it. Would he regain his position? He doubted it, but knew the horse was one of the gamest, and at the end of two miles he went as fast as the average horse at the end of half the distance, so he hoped for the best as he fixed his glasses on the sky-blue jacket.

Jack shot his bolt. He had done well, and was not disgraced, but the pace and the distance proved too much for him. Isaac took his place, the Derby winner coming along in great style. His numerous admirers and supporters were on good terms with themselves. Roland came with a rattle and ran into third place behind Isaac and Out Back, who made a terrific run from the bend. A large field of horses in the straight, at the finishing struggle for a Melbourne Cup, is one of the most exciting scenes in the racing world; it rouses the lethargic to some sort of enthusiasm, and a lover of the great game almost goes frantic over it. From the moment the horses race in desperate earnest, when the bend is cleared, the pent-up excitement continues until the winning post is passed.

Glen Leigh, with a matter of twenty-five thousand at issue, looked on wonderingly; even the melancholy fact that Barellan was so far back did not obliterate from view the grand sight he witnessed. As he looked at the various horses, one by one, from Isaac in the lead, his rider's pink jacket and white cap standing out alone, he gave a gasp of surprise. What caused it?

"Look at Barellan!" yelled a man standing near him.

Glen looked, his eyes glued on the sky-blue jacket. It was this which had caused the gasp of surprise. Barellan was going great guns, and passing horse after horse in a remarkable manner. His name was shouted over the course, far and wide.

"Barellan, Barellan!"