The two friends parted and Jerry went on to the Federal.
Next morning it was beautifully fine, and from an early hour huge crowds wended their way to Flemington. Towards noon Spencer Street Station was crammed. All the specials were full.
There is no finer racing picture in the world than Flemington on Cup Day. Even Royal Ascot pales before it in many respects. It is the luxury of racing in comfort that makes Flemington, and most Australian courses, attractive. There is room for everybody; there is no jostling or overcrowding, and the cost is moderate. Everything is done to enhance the pleasure of the public, who are not treated with the scant courtesy meted out to them grudgingly in England.
The lawn and stand were a grand sight before racing commenced. The hill at the back, overlooking the stand, was a mass of people, yet there was ample room to move about. The beds on the lawn were gay with brilliant-hued flowers. The grass was splendidly green; there was no dust or dirt, no fear of new and wondrously devised ladies' costumes being damaged in an hour. Despite the heat, it was one of November's hottest days, people looked cool. There was plenty of shade. Cosy tables for luncheon parties were laid beneath arbours of vines, whose leaves afforded a refreshing covering. Here scores of parties chatted and made merry, talking over the prospects of the horses in the great race of the year. Coaches, with fine teams, came driving in. There were no motor cars, and the scene was far more picturesque without them. On the flat the huge crowd assembled. It was evident there would be a record attendance.
The Governor and his Lady arrived and were greeted with rousing cheers as they stepped from their carriage and walked across the lawn to the reserved box on the grand stand.
The bookmakers, located between the lawn and the paddock, were not cooped up in an iron cage like animals in a zoological collection. Wagering could be done in comfort. There was no fighting to get money, no scrambling. Everything was decent and in order.
Nick Gerard stood with his back to the rails, against the stewards' and official enclosure and his clerks were seldom still. The leviathan had a big book, and could afford to lay any horse asked for, but a casual observer might have noticed he was in no particular hurry to put Barellan's name down. He laid against Roland whenever he got a chance, but the horse was so heavily backed he came down to five to one before the first race was decided.
A whole string of horses figured in the betting, and there were thirty-one runners in the field, or would be if all started.
Isaac, the winner of the Derby on the previous Saturday, had plenty of friends. He was ridden by Nicholl in that race, and the jockey considered he had an excellent chance.
He had been asked to ride him in the Cup, but had to decline because he was engaged for Barellan.