Perhaps Glen Leigh was one of the most anxious men on the course, but there was no sign that he was unduly excited. He laughed and joked as usual and appeared quite calm outwardly.
The chance of winning a fortune of nearly twenty-five thousand pounds for the investment of a sovereign does not come to many men in a lifetime. This was what Glen stood to win, and he conjured up his future prospects if it came off. He thought of Mrs. Prevost and Clara; the former he knew loved him; at least he was very much mistaken if she did not, and he knew he loved her. If Barellan won he would go to her and ask her to be his wife, and she would not refuse. He cared nothing about her connection with Bellshaw. He would never ask her about it. He knew the man, and pitied any woman who got into his clutches. As he stood looking at Barellan he thought what the horse's victory meant to him, and naturally he became more anxious as the time of the race drew near. He saw Bellshaw coming and would have avoided him had it been possible.
The squatter scowled at him, then asked, "Have you changed your mind? Will you give me a cent out of the sweep?"
"No," replied Glen as he walked away.
Bellshaw sent a curse after him, then turned to the jockey.
"If you can't win it doesn't matter about riding him out for a place," he said. "There's no sweep money attached to it."
Nicholl made no reply.
"Do you hear what I say?" snapped Bellshaw.
"I heard; I shall have to ride him out."
"You'll do as I tell you."