What looked like a hopeless position was turned into a promising situation as Barellan came up the course at a tremendous pace. It was a thrilling sight, watching the sky-blue jacket forging ahead, and Glen Leigh's pulses beat rapidly. His body quivered as it had never done before as he watched Barellan galloping the field to a standstill. The shouting was tremendous. The noise deafening. Barellan's name echoed over the course. Smack, on Roland, cast a hasty glance back and caught sight of the blue on the outside. Barellan had "dropped from the clouds." It was now or never. If he caught Isaac he might win. He raised his whip, shaking it at the favourite. The gallant Caulfield Cup winner responded gamely and was soon at the Derby winner's quarters. In another moment he crept up, drawing level, and there was a rare set-to for the advantage.

Nicholl watched the leading pair. A smile flickered across his face. They were playing into his hands, wearing each other down. The struggle must tell, and there was still a furlong to go. Almost level with Barellan were Rosehill and Out Back, the last named still going well. When Barellan forged ahead and left them there was a terrific yell. Glen Leigh dropped his glasses in his excitement. A man picked them up, handing them to him, saying with a smile, "I expect you're on Barellan."

"I drew him in the sweep," said Glen.

The man stared at him, then said, "And you stand a good chance of winning. Lucky fellow, you are."

The chase commenced. Three to four lengths in front were Isaac and Roland. The form was coming out well. If Barellan beat the Derby and Caulfield Cup winners he would indeed be a great horse. When he lost his place, and fell back soon after rounding the bend, there were at least a dozen lengths to make up. It seemed impossible it could be done. Nicholl rode with splendid judgment, nursing his mount carefully, easing him as far as he dare, but he could not afford to lose more ground. Then came the sudden spurt on the horse's part, without being forced. It was a spontaneous effort, without pressure, and Nicholl's hopes rose rapidly. His winning prospects increased with every stride.

Pandemonium reigned on the course. This was to be a most exciting finish. If Barellan kept up his run to the finish there was no telling what might happen.

Isaac was on the rails, Roland level with him, the pair racing in grim earnest, fighting as only the best thoroughbreds can; no giving way, no acknowledging defeat, a battle of giants, stern, determined, the jockeys helping their mounts with all the skill and experience at their command.

Barellan, and Out Back, were having a tussle behind the leading pair. The spectators, roused to a boiling pitch of excitement, watched first the leaders, then the others, and wondered if the latter pair would get up.

It was a breathless scene, full of strange emotion, bringing out all the pent-up enthusiasm that nothing can rouse like a great race. People watched with bated breath; hands shook, hearts palpitated, eyes blinked, faces twitched, nerves twinged, pulses beat rapidly. In all those thousands no one appeared to stand quite still. There were movements everywhere; it was impossible to restrain them.

Glen Leigh's mind was in a whirl.

Twenty-five thousand pounds at stake, a fortune on Barellan and the horse was only a few lengths from the winning post. He guessed how many, twenty, thirty, more, less, which was it? What did it matter, if only he won at the finish!

"He'll win, he'll win, he'll win," seemed to be the refrain in Glen's ears as he now and then caught a dull sound of hoofs when there were brief lulls in the shouting.

"Go on, Luke," he yelled. "Go on. You'll catch 'em."

He could not restrain his feelings. He must shout or something would happen. The strain was too great. There might be a snap, and then collapse.

Glen Leigh was a strong man, hard and fit, but the perspiration stood on his forehead like beads, then gradually trickled down his face. He did not feel it. Even when the drops wet his eyes he took no notice. He glared at the sky-blue jacket through a mist which soon passed, although for the moment it dimmed his vision. He put down the glasses. He could see without them. The horses were not far off. He bent forward, swayed a little. The man who had spoken to him thought he was about to fall and caught him by the arm. He remembered a policeman, who had drawn the winner, falling down dead on the lawn as the horses passed the post.

Glen felt the friendly pressure, and said in a thick voice, "Thanks. I'm all right."

Roar after roar came from the surging crowd as Roland, the favourite, got his head in front of Isaac.

The shouts of triumph rang in the air, heralding the victory of the favourite, and when this happens in a Melbourne Cup the scene baffles description. Who that saw it will ever forget the wonderful victory of Carbine when he carried top weight, started favourite, and beat Forester's Highborn, and Correze, both outsiders, easily? It was a sight seen only once in a lifetime. It equalled Persimmon's Derby, if it did not surpass it, and "Old Jack" took it all quietly, for, as he passed the winning post, he stopped, turned round, and made for the weighing enclosure without any assistance from Ramage, his pilot. This race was more exciting than Carbine's Cup even, for there were four horses in it, all with chances, and close on the winning post.

"Even hundred nobody names it," yelled a bookmaker in the ring. It was a safe offer, for nobody could name it except by a lucky guess.

Roland was a neck in front of Isaac, Out Back and Barellan were on their quarters.

An electric current seemed to shoot through the living mass of human beings and galvanise them into life; such a shout rent the air as had not been heard at Flemington before. There had been desperate finishes between two horses, but here were four putting up one of the greatest battles ever seen.

Glen Leigh shook with excitement. Small wonder at it, for the sky-blue jacket had passed Out Back, and drawn almost level with Isaac.

"I'm sure of the place money," thought Glen with a sigh of relief.

Sure of the place money! In another second Barellan looked all over a winner. Roland, hard ridden, held his own. Isaac was only half a length off, the three together, with Out Back on the Derby winner's quarters. What a fight, and what a great compliment to the handicapper, for behind the leading four came a cluster of six, not two lengths away.

Bill Bigs and Jim were well nigh frantic. Their hats were off. They yelled, "Barellan," until they were hoarse.

Ivor Hadwin turned pale. The strain was almost more than he could bear. If, if only Barellan got his head in front as they passed the judge's box.

"He will. He'll win," almost shouted the trainer, who had to give way under the pressure. His shouts acted like a safety valve.

Barellan was head and head with Isaac, Roland half a length to the good, and the winning post a few yards away.

Luke Nicholl, for the first time, raised his whip. He was on the outside and his right arm was free.

One cut, another, a third, not too sharp, just sufficient to sting, to give Barellan a reminder.

The effect was astounding. Barellan, acting under the unexpected, went forward with a final rush. His speed was so great that he caught up to the favourite in two strides; his head shot out, his nostrils red and wide, his eyes glared, his nose, then half a head, was in front; a fraction of a second's suspense, then he claimed a head advantage, then half a neck, a neck, and when this was realised the stands seemed to shake with the deafening noise. It was marvellous. Rounding the bend Barellan had fallen back a dozen lengths. His case seemed hopeless. He had made up all the lost ground in the straight, and now he had his neck in front of all the runners.

Roland made a desperate effort, reducing the distance to half a neck again. Isaac drew up, so did Out Back. The four horses were all together.

Glen Leigh looked, and looked. He had a dim vision of blue, pink, black, white, red, orange, mixed together. Was the blue in front? He thought so. How he hoped no one else knew.

At last the struggle was at an end. The horses passed the post, four of them with not a length between them. An anxious pause; thousands of people could not tell which had won, the numbers were not up. The judge seemed a long time hoisting them, but up they went at last. He placed Barellan first, Roland second, a neck away, Isaac and Out Back, half a length away, dead heat for third place.

What a finish!