They were, they declared; and presently they set off towards the rise. Already the horses were appearing on the track, most of the jockeys wearing silk jackets and caps, although a few were content with doffing coat and waistcoat, and riding in blue and pink shirts—occasionally, but not always, complete with collar and tie. The horses were a mixed lot; some bore traces of birth and breeding, but the majority were just grass-fed horses from the neighbouring farms and stations, groomed and polished in a way that only happened to them once a year. The well-bred performers were handicapped with heavy weights, while the others had been let off lightly, so that all had a chance.
“Billabong has a horse running to-day—did you know?” Jim inquired.
“No!” Tommy looked up, dimpling with interest. “But how exciting, Jim. Is it yours?”
“No.” Jim shook his head. “I won't enter a horse if I can't ride him myself, and of course I'm too heavy. He belongs to the station, but he's always looked upon as Murty's, and black Billy's going to ride him. He's in the Hurdle Race.”
“Do you think he has any chance?”
“Well, he can gallop and jump all right,” Jim said. “But he hasn't had much training, and whether he'll jump in company is open to doubt. But I don't think he'll disgrace us. You've seen Murty riding him—a big chestnut with a white blaze.”
“Oh, yes—he calls him Shannon, doesn't he?” said Tommy. “I saw him jump three fences on him last time we were out mustering with your people. He's a beauty, Jim.”
“Yes, he's pretty good. Murty thinks he's better than Garryowen, but I don't,” Jim observed.
“If the Archangel Gabriel turned into a horse you wouldn't think he was up to Garryowen!” said Wally.
“No, and he probably wouldn't be,” said Jim, laughing. “If you begin life as an archangel, how would you settle down to being a horse after?”