“I’ll bet you a crown!” said Mr. Clark, who had carefully considered that that amount would be about the limit of the lad’s purse.
“Done!” cried Mick, forgetting, in the eagerness of sport and possible gain, the injunction of his father to secrecy, and, above all, as to over-riding the mare.
Quietly, and with dispatch, a fresh saddle was brought out, strapped on the black horse, and the lad who accompanied Mr. Clark put in the saddle. The two lads were so nearly of a weight that only a lucky chance or careful foresight could have paired them so equally.
The slip-rails were lowered, and at an easy pace the two riders, with Mr. Clark at their side, took their way to an open stretch of common ground.
Arrived there, Mick was for a race of once round the imaginary course. He feared now, even with that, he should sweat the mare and get into trouble. But the stranger insisted with scornful banter on three times round, which a critical observer might have noted would be as near as possible the distance of the Sydney Cup course.
But Mick knew nothing of this. He was easily over-persuaded. The chance of making a crown did not come every day, and he was sure of the race, so the horses stood in line. Mr. Clark was to be starter and judge, and an old dead stringy-bark the winning-post.
At the word Go, they went off to a level start, the black horse making the running. Clearly this was to be no cantering match, with a sprint at the finish. To the surprise of Mick, he had to send the mare along at a fast gallop to keep within a length of the black horse.
Once round, both horses sweating, the riders sitting quietly at their work, the black horse led by half a length; but Mr. Clark saw that the mare was only stopped from rushing to the front by the tight rein of young Mick, who evidently knew something of his business, and was not going to burst his mount thus early.
Twice round, the same order.
The third round was entered on; the pace, fast enough already, warmed up half-way home, and the lad on the black horse, as though following instructions, began to draw the whip, and his mount shot to the front like a bullet from a gun, leaving for a moment the mare by herself, but it was only for a moment. Mick gave her her head, and she came away like a bird. No whip for her! Mick knew full well that the only rider that had ever tried her with it had had his collar-bone broken.