Cloud, the Smiter E-Book

Arthur Gask

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

One beautiful summer's evening a young man was bicycling slowly along the Military Road that runs between the great Outer Harbour of South Australia and Glenelg. The road was one very seldom used and wound a lonely, sinuous way among the sandhills by the sea.
 
Dusk had just fallen and the young man was riding slowly and anxiously along. He was not anxious because the surface of the road was shockingly uneven and bad, but he was troubled because he was riding without a light.
 
He had not expected to be out so late and there was no oil in his lamp. He had ridden out from Adelaide early that afternoon fully intending to be back long before night had fallen, but twice he had had trouble with his tyres, and dusk had now caught him seven miles at least from the city and on a road that was quite unknown to him.

Leseprobe

Cloud, The Smiter

by

Arthur Gask

(1926)

© 2022 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782383835912

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I.--SOWING THE WIND

CHAPTER II.--A YEAR LATER

CHAPTER III.--THE CRIME

CHAPTER IV --THE SUSPICION OF THE INSPECTOR

CHAPTER V.--THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY

CHAPTER VI.--PLAYING WITH FIRE

CHAPTER VII.--AN INTERNATIONAL CRIMINAL

CHAPTER VIII.--THE CHIEF COMMISSIONER OF THE POLICE

CHAPTER IX.--THE INVISIBLE CORDON

CHAPTER X.--THE HEMPEN CORD

CHAPTER XI.--SONS OF THE JAIL

CHAPTER XII.--MAUDE MCIVER

CHAPTER XIII.--THE HELP OF LAROSE

CHAPTER XIV.--ANDREW, THE GARROTTER

CHAPTER XV.--THE PASSION YEARS

CHAPTER XVI.--MARK JERVIS ROMILLY

CHAPTER I.--SOWING THE WIND

One beautiful summer's evening a young man was bicycling slowly along the Military Road that runs between the great Outer Harbour of South Australia and Glenelg. The road was one very seldom used and wound a lonely, sinuous way among the sandhills by the sea.

Dusk had just fallen and the young man was riding slowly and anxiously along. He was not anxious because the surface of the road was shockingly uneven and bad, but he was troubled because he was riding without a light.

He had not expected to be out so late and there was no oil in his lamp. He had ridden out from Adelaide early that afternoon fully intending to be back long before night had fallen, but twice he had had trouble with his tyres, and dusk had now caught him seven miles at least from the city and on a road that was quite unknown to him.

Indeed he was a stranger to all these parts. A medical student from Sydney, two days before he had come alone to Adelaide, on holiday, and was now amusing himself by touring the district on a bicycle that he had brought with him to the city.

He pedalled slowly along.

Presently, and just as the road passed deeply in among the blackness of two high sandhills, he heard low voices away in front of him, and against the last lights in the sky caught sight of two figures coming towards him. They were men, he saw at once, and one, he thought, was wearing a policeman's helmet.

The young man frowned angrily at his bad luck, for he had no mind for the annoyance of being brought up before the authorities for riding a bicycle without a light.

Quickly, therefore, and without noise, he alighted from his machine and then, lifting it carefully from the ground, he tiptoed off across the road. There was a thick bush close near upon the sands and, crouching low behind it, in a few seconds he lay buried in the shadows.

Rather to his astonishment, for he had made quite certain he had not been seen, the voices had stopped the same instant that he had dismounted, and he was beginning to believe that both his eyes and ears must have deceived him when two men, stepping softly along in the dust that lay thick and deep on the side of the road, drew level with him where he lay.

He was not five yards from them.

They stopped walking and stood absolutely still. In the dim light he could just see from their attitudes that they were listening--listening and peering hard along the way down which he had just come.

Presently one of them spoke, very softly but very distinctly. "You always were an ass, Phil, always on the jumps."

"Ass, yourself. Burke. Everyone's always ass or fool if they don't think exactly with you. I know I saw someone distinctly, just in front."

"Well, what if you did? There's nothing in that--the road's public to anyone, isn't it?"

"Yes, there might be nothing in it if he'd passed us, but where's he gone?--that's what I don't like."

"I don't believe you saw anyone. I'd got my eyes skinned same as you, and I saw no one. It's just one of your damned ideas, always giving everyone the creeps."

"Look here, Burke, I've had no drinks and I've got no creeps, but I'll swear I saw someone coming towards us down that rise. I saw him as plainly as I see you here. He saw us too, I'm sure now, and that's why he disappeared. It's funny and I don't like it."

"Well, it doesn't worry me and I'm going in."

"No, nothing worries you, and you've got no eyes. Nothing worried poor old Rook, and he'd got no eyes. He'd have been here now if he'd used his eyes. He'd not be doing seven years if he'd seen the tram conductor follow him. You know that right enough."

"Oh, chuck it, Phil. Come on now; the Smiter will be in one of his rages if we're late," and greatly to the young man's astonishment they turned off exactly at right angles to the road and proceeded over the sandhills in the direction of the sea.

To the watcher in the bush the whole business seemed very extraordinary and not without a certain sinister significance.

That the men were evil-doers he somehow felt quite sure, but then he fell to wondering what evil they could possibly be doing in so lonely and so uninhabited a spot.

The young man was not afraid, but he shivered, as brave men often do when exposed to a sudden and unexpected situation.

A close observer of physiognomy would not indeed have expected any fear, for it was easy to see the watcher was no coward. His face was the face of a man not unaccustomed to take risks. His eyes were grave and deep set, his jaw was square and firm, and there were lines about his mouth that had been carved there in Gallipoli and France.

A tense two minutes' waiting, and he followed warily after the two men. He was curious as to where they were going and his curiosity was soon satisfied.

To his surprise again, in less almost than two hundred yards, he came upon a low, flat bungalow built deep in the hollow between two sandhills. It seemed quite a fair-sized building as far as he could see in the dark, and a verandah ran all round the sides.

There were no signs anywhere of the men he was following, but just as he caught sight of the building he heard the clang of a shutting door. There were lights in the place.

He turned back the way he had come, and making a wide detour, in a few minutes approached the bungalow on the side facing the sea.

Everything was quite still. All the windows were closely shuttered, but he could see plainly the cracks of light from within.

Silently he tiptoed up on to the verandah and very cautiously and without noise placed his ear close to where the light was coming from.

He could hear the hum of low voices, but to his disappointment he could pick up no word of what was being said.

Then suddenly--so suddenly that there was not the slightest chance of his preventing it--he received a stunning blow on the back of the head and was sent sprawling on his face to the verandah floor. Someone leapt on to his back and pinioned his arms to the ground. At the same time an exultant voice cried shrilly, "Come out, you beggars, quick. There's a blasted spy here and I've downed him. Quick! quick!"

There was a great shuffling of feet and the noise of a chair being overturned; then a door banged open and three men ran out. They all fell on him at once, and in two minutes he had been dragged inside the house, and, with his arms tied painfully and tightly behind him, had been bundled roughly into a chair.

He found himself in a large room with a good-sized table running down the centre. At one end of the table there was a heap of articles that had apparently been hastily covered with a cloth. His attention was drawn to this by one of his captors frowningly adjusting the end of the cloth, so as to make sure he should not possibly perceive what was underneath. The four men sat down to the table and one of them, producing a revolver, laid it significantly down just in front of him.

Then they all regarded him intently, without speaking, for quite a long time.

The young man, in spite of himself, felt uneasy. The man who had knocked him down was the first to speak, but it was to his companions that he addressed his remark.

"So, I was an ass, was I?" he sneered exultingly, "and I had got the jumps, eh? Where the devil would we all have been if I hadn't stopped outside to make sure? I knew I'd seen someone out on that road there, and directly he turned back I knew at once he was a spy. It was you who were the damned fool, Burke, at any rate this time."

"Oh, shut up, Phil. Never mind about that now. Who the hell is this man?--that's what I want to know. Who are you, now?" And half rising from his seat the speaker leaned frowningly across the table to peer closer at the student.

The latter was still dazed and heavy with his fall, but he answered coherently enough.

"I'm no one in particular," he said. "I'm a medical student and my name is Page."

"You're in the police!"

"Oh no, I'm not. I'm a medical student I say, and I come from Sydney."

"You followed us out here--you were spying."

"No, indeed, I wasn't. It was quite an accident."

"Accident, be damned! We saw you in the road."

"Yes--I know that, but I thought you were policemen yourselves. I am bicycling to Adelaide, and I've got no oil in my lamp. I saw you coming and thought one of you had got a policeman's hat. So I hid until you had gone by, that's all."

His interrogator sneered contemptuously.

"And that's why you came sneaking round the verandah; that's why you went right round the other side of the sandhill, so as to take us unawares! That's why you stood listening, too, under the window! You fool! Again I ask you what did you follow us for?"

The student hesitated a moment and then replied a little lamely, "I wanted to see if I could borrow some oil."

There was a snarl of dangerous laughter, and then a third man broke in.

"See what he's got about him, Phil; that'll help us a bit."

The young man's pockets were quickly emptied of their contents and his clothes searched generally. The man they called Phil seemed purposely rough in his handling, but the victim bore patiently with the roughness, realising perfectly well now that things were in a dangerous way.

The search yielded nothing of interest. A little money, some keys, a pocket knife, a few odds and ends, and nothing more. No papers or letters of any kind. The student had left his pocket-book and all his valuables locked in the trunk at his hotel.

The searchers were dissatisfied. The very absence of any papers seemed to them suspicious, and they glared darkly at the young man.

Then suddenly the fourth man spoke for the first time, and the student started as if he had been stung. He had not heard that voice before and the cruelty in it struck at him like a blow. It was a voice, cold, suave, and pitiless, without a trace of mercy in its tone. It was the voice of a man who would hesitate at nothing if he thought it necessary--a man with no scruples whatsoever.

"See if he's got any name," he said quietly, "on the collar of his shirt or in the pocket of his coat."

The student regarded him intently. He was a rather fat man with a white flabby face, and neither short nor tall. He had a square broad forehead, and his mouth was set in a hard straight line. His eyes were sleepy-looking and appeared to have no particular expression in them. The man reminded him strangely of someone in his past life, but he could not remember whom.

They found no name either in his pocket or on his shirt, and after a short silence the fourth man spoke again.

"Whom do you know in Adelaide?"

The student shrugged his shoulders.

"I know no one," he said; "I only arrived the day before yesterday. I am stopping at the Southern Cross Hotel."

Again a short silence and the interrogation went on.

"You say you're a medical student."

"Yes--in my third year."

"Tell me the branches of the carotid artery."

For a moment the student was amused--then he reeled them off glibly.

"What's your father?"

"A bank manager in Sydney. Manager of the Coulter Street branch of the Bank of New South Wales."

A significant glance passed between the men, and the student distinctly saw the eyes of the man they called Phil turn quickly to the covered-up end of the table.

The fourth man spoke again, coldly and deliberately as before.

"I believe you're a liar."

For the first time the student was angry.

"What if I am? I've done you no harm. But I'm not. Everything I've told you is true, except that I kept back that I was curious to know what your two friends were about."

"What made you curious?"

"What I heard them say."

"Exactly, you're a spy."

The student bit his lip in vexation. He knew that like a fool he had given himself away. He ought never to have let them know that he had heard anything at all. Now, if they had got anything to hide, they knew that they had aroused his suspicions and it might be dangerous for them to let him go.

He looked at them from one to another, but three of them now averted their eyes. Only the fourth man was looking at him still.

There was a long, dreadful silence and the young man shivered. He realised that he was in the presence of death.

Once before he remembered such a scene as this, in a little village in the far-off days in France. He had been on orderly duty, and they were examining a spy. The examination had been concluded and there had been a moment's silence before the officer had told the spy he was about to die. He sensed that silence now.

The fourth man made a peculiar sign to the one they called Phil.

"Take this young gentleman outside," he said suavely, "while we think over what we must do. Don't unloose his arms. No," he continued, turning back to the young man, "you'd better go quietly. We're not going to hurt you, but we have valuable properties here and we should like to be quite certain you didn't come after them. We shall inquire into your story and see if it's all true. The Southern Cross Hotel, I think you said. Well, we'll phone up. We shan't keep you long."

The student got up stiffly. He knew quite well that the man was lying, and that they were going to do something dreadful to him, but he made a pretence of being relieved and smiled confidently.

Still pinioned and with an escort on either side, he was piloted through the house and across a small yard to a substantial-looking motor shed on the far side. The moon had just risen and he could plainly see the padlock on the door.

The man they had called Burke produced a key and, opening the door only just wide enough to admit of his entering, unceremoniously pushed the prisoner in and clanged and padlocked the door again behind him.

It was almost dark inside and the vicious push he had received caused the student instantly to overbalance. He fell painfully upon a big heap of wood and for quite a minute lay dazed and stunned exactly where he fell.

Then he rolled over in a feeble attempt to sit up, and the first thing his hands touched was the cold, smooth blade of an axe.

For a moment he thought nothing of it, and then it suddenly flashed through him that if the blade were only moderately sharp he could very quickly cut through the cord that held his wrists so painfully together. At once he began rubbing the cord and blade together.

The axe proved sharper even than he had dared to hope and almost immediately he was free of his bonds and was breathlessly chafing the blood back into his cold, numbed hands.

All the while he was looking intently about him. The moonlight came in faintly between the chinks of the door and, more accustomed now to the darkness, he could take in all his surroundings without difficulty.

There was no car in the garage and it was apparently being used as a wood shed only.

His thoughts succeeded one another quickly. He was sure he was in great and deadly peril, for if ever he had seen murder in anyone's eyes he had seen it in those of the white, flabby-faced man who had questioned him last.

What their business was he could not imagine, but he believed he had stumbled inadvertently upon some sinister secret, and that it would not be safe therefore for them now to let him go.

He shuddered to think what they might be intending to do to him, but if his four years in the war had given him courage, they had also given him quickness and resource. Action followed almost immediately upon thought.

Directly sensation had come back fully into his hands, he stood back a few feet, well away from the wall, and swinging the long axe over his head brought it down fiercely upon the door.

Once, twice, three times he swung it and then, crash, the door burst open and he sprang exulting into the moonlight.

There was no hesitation then about his actions. With a loud cry of defiance, for he knew it would be quite hopeless to imagine the breaking down of the door had not been heard, he hurled his axe contemptuously upon the roof of the bungalow, and raced like a greyhound for the sea.

He knew his only chance lay in flight, and he judged rightly he could run best over the broad level sand at the margin of the waves.

He reckoned that if he could get only a hundred yards from the house he would be safe, for it would be quite improbable that they would have a loaded rifle ready.

Racing over the yard and down towards the low fence that bounded the long stretch of grass in the front of the house, he heard voices shouting to him to stop and then three times in quick succession someone from behind fired with a revolver. The hiss of the bullets sounded unpleasantly close, but he was quite unharmed.

He had reached the fence and was adjusting his stride to leap over it when for the fourth time the revolver spoke. The bullet missed him as before, but the report made him miscalculate his jump. He sprang short and hitting the top rail fell with a heavy crash back on to the ground. His forehead struck a jagged paling and in an instant he was blinded with blood.

He felt terribly sick and made no attempt to rise. Two of his late captors ran up.

"My God," cried one of them. "Smiter's hit him in the head. He's killed him. Fetch the others quick."

But there was no need, for the other two came running down as he spoke. There was a low and hurried consultation and then the Smiter issued his orders like a man who was accustomed to be obeyed.

"Put him in the sea," he said sharply; "with this tide running he'll be out of the gulf by morning. Quick now; the shots may have been heard. Lift him, don't drag him down. You needn't go in deep. The tide'll be dead off shore."

With no further discussion the limp body of the student was bundled up and hurried to the sea.

He was quite conscious and had missed no word of what had been said, but he felt too sick to worry about anything. It crossed into his mind that he was prepared to die.

A few stumbling yards and they were over the sands and by the sea.

"Now swing him; one, two, three. .. .. ."

Instinctively he knew what was coming, and he took in a deep breath.

Splash--he was free of them at last.

The sweet warm water of the sea closed over him, but instantly as he sank his brain was cleared of its oppression, and the magic love of life came back.

He felt revived at once.

Why should he die in any case? He had so much to live for, and, after all, he could not be very much hurt.

With the sea warm as it can be on an Australian summer night, he knew he could remain in it for hours without being chilled, and he had only to drift gently with the tide speedily to draw clear from the murderers.

He chuckled to himself at the simple way in which they had let him go.

Very gently he allowed himself to rise to the surface, until his face was just clear, and then he opened his eyes.

The moon was disappearing behind a cloud, and in a few seconds it was almost pitch dark.

He was about twenty yards from the shore and dimly he could see the figures of the two men who had thrown him in.

They were watching to see what had become of him.

He drifted very slowly away.

CHAPTER II.--A YEAR LATER

IT was the Christmas Cup Saturday at Morphettville Racecourse, Adelaide, and old Andy McIver had got his betting boots on and was doing well. A rich man and in no need of money, he was, of course, winning all along the line. After three races in succession he had gone up to draw money from the paying-out windows of the totalisator.

He had had twenty-five pounds on Bottle King in the Hurdles and it had returned him a dividend of over eight to one.

Then he had had fifty pounds on his own animal, Lightning, in the Welter and, although it only came in second, his money was returned to him exactly doubled.

He had next plunged heavily on Clara in the youngsters' race and the beautiful little filly, coming like a whirlwind at the finish, had pipped the favourite easily by a length. Nearly six hundred pounds had then been added to the already thick wad of notes in his breast pocket.

He was very pleased with himself, nor did he mind who knew it.

"Splendidly, my boy," he called out loudly in answer to the inquiry of a friend two rows in front of him on the grand stand, "I'm picking them all out. It's as easy as shelling peas."

He walked out, and down to where the band was playing, wondering what he should back for the Cup.

Suddenly, when turning round to admire two pretty girls who were passing, he banged into a big stout man, almost knocking the race glasses the latter was carrying out of his hand.

"Curse you, Andy," expostulated the corpulent individual sharply. "What are you swerving all over the course for? Leave the girls alone, can't you? I should have thought you were too old for that sort of thing now--you wicked old gambler."

"Hullo, Charlie--beg pardon, old man, but weren't they peaches? Pretty as two-year-olds and just about as skittish, too. The little dark one smiled at me; I'll swear she did."

"I shouldn't wonder either. Your old red face would make anybody smile. I could grin myself any day when I see you; but how are you doing to-day?"

The old man beamed with happiness like a boy. "Dinkum, dinkum, Charlie, I'm drawing money every time. Now, bless me if I don't back your animal in the Cup. I wanted a good outsider, but I never thought of Boxer till I saw you. Any chance, do you think?"

The owner of Boxer frowned.

"It'd win if they'd let it," he growled, "but, damn them, it never gets a chance. You know the grudge they've all got against me."

Old Andy knew it well enough. Boxer was a good stout horse and beautifully bred, but for over a year now he had been under a cloud. Back in his two-year old days he had been a hot favourite once, in a classic race at Victoria Park. He had finished very badly, however, and the irate owner, whom report said had backed him heavily both off and on the course, had sworn that the horse had been deliberately pulled and thereby prevented from winning.

In a great rage, he had had the jockey up before the Stipendiary Stewards, but the latter, upon deliberation, had found no proof of pulling, and the rider had got off unscathed.

A great to-do had been made about the matter at the time and it was rumoured generally that all the jockeys had sworn among themselves that Boxer should never win on an Adelaide racecourse again.

It might, of course, have been only a rumour, but strangely enough. Boxer never had won since.

A splendid galloper at exercise and on the track, and always most highly spoken of by all the touts and sporting correspondents who had watched him, he had, however, never been able in many subsequent attempts to catch the judge's eye.

Something always seemed to happen to him when he came on to the racecourse. Either he got off badly, or something bumped into him at the start, or some other horse compelled him to run wide at the turn, or he got boxed in at the finish and could not get an opening to run through.

Whatever it was, intentional or not, he never seemed to get a fair chance and was certainly the most unlucky horse in training.

"He's been doing well on the track, hasn't he?" asked Andy. "I saw Rapier wrote the other day that he'd never been going better."

"He's fit to beat anything in the Cup," replied the other, gloomily; "he's only got eight stone and the distance just suits him. But there you are--some damned bad luck will come to him as sure as we're talking here. I tell you, Andy, they won't let him win."

"You've got young Lane riding him to-day? I read it somewhere."

"Yes, I'm alright there. Lane's one of the most promising riders in the West. It's quite by chance I got him, too. I heard he was here on holiday with his father, and I asked the old man if he'd let the boy ride. I know he's only an apprentice, but he's a fine judge of pace and a clean, jolly little fellow altogether."

"Well, let's have a word with him, Charlie. I'm going to back your horse and chance it, anyhow."

They went round by the weighing-room and found the boy. He was talking to his father. He certainly did look a nice little chap. Old Andy was introduced.

"Mr. Andrew McIver?" queried the elder Lane. "I know you very well by reputation, sir, for my brother worked on your station at Woolaroo for many years, and a very good master he said you were. He was never tired of telling us of your kindness and the way you always treated all your men."

"Tut, tut," replied old Andy with his red face redder now than ever. "I remember Bob Lane well and a better man I'll never meet. I could trust him anywhere; but look here now, we've come to you about this race. Mr. Horrocks here is my great friend, and I'm most anxious to see Boxer win. I'm backing him heavily myself, too."

"Well, sir, my lad'll do his best. You can depend on Ted."

"I know that, but I expect you've heard by now that people say Boxer's never going to be allowed to win. You've heard that, haven't you?"

The jockey's father looked rather uncomfortable.

"Yes, sir, I've heard something," he replied, and then he added proudly, "but my boy's no fool, although he looks a kid. He'll see that no tricks are played. Won't you, Ted?"

The boy grinned.

"Got my riding orders, sir," he said. "Win almost from start to finish if I can. I've had a spin on him and I don't want anything better."

"Good boy, sonny," broke in old Andy admiringly. "I'll have a packet on your mount and if you win there'll be a hundred of the best to go into your money box, see?"

The boy grinned impishly this time.

"Well, don't give it to dad, sir. I'll come for it myself, sure I will."

In high good humour Andy patted him on the back.

"By Jove, you'll do, I can see. I'll have to have an extra fiver on the tote to pay for your present. I really do believe, Horrocks, that we're going to win."

The bell rang and the little jockey ran off. It wanted twenty minutes yet to the starting time, but business was already brisk at the totalisator and the figures under the various horses' names were changing and mounting almost with every second.

Already nearly 3,000 had been invested and he would have been a smart man who could have determined from the figures exactly which horse was going to end up favourite.

There were sixteen runners, but four horses alone were being heavily backed, and of these Rose Darling held just a slight predominance over the others. Over 500 had been posted to her credit.

Andy McIver smiled knowingly when he saw the figures. "Boxer at any rate has got a poor following," he said to that horse's owner who was standing beside him. "Only 52 so far. Why man, it'll pay forty if it's no better backed than it is now."

"Well, I'm going to have fifty on," growled Horrocks; "that'll make 'em think a bit."

"Don't have it on yet, Charlie; I'm going to have fifty on, too, and perhaps a hundred. Wait till towards the end. Wait till everybody's put down their money and then we'll go in together for a good slapping win. Damn those jockeys, I say; it'll be the sell of their lives if Boxer wins and I do believe he's going to--something tells me he is."

"You're a real baby, Andy. I've had that feeling hundreds of times in my life--and a nice penny it's cost me. But we'll wait until the last three minutes and then we'll go on to the rise and see our money lost."

Two minutes before the race was due to start Andy and his friend hopefully advanced to the 5 window and a big jump of 150 was immediately recorded to the investments on Boxer.

Confidence in Boxer even then looked rather small, less then 260 in a total of over 6,000 being all that was under his name.

The start took place just opposite the stands, and the sixteen horses were getting ready to line up.

Boxer was drawn number eleven, and the two friends soon saw that the youthful jockey had all his wits about him.

Pinkeye, drawn number ten, started kicking and plunging and little Lane expostulated shrilly.

"Now then, keep your old bus away, will you? Have you drawn my number as well as yours? Keep away now."

The other jockeys laughed good naturedly.

"Alright, baby," said one, "you shall have the whole course to yourself in a minute when we've started--so don't worry now."

"You want some of the lads from Perth here," went on the little chap. "They'd teach you to line up properly anyhow."

The crowd round the rails were much amused.

"That's Boxer he's riding," said a tall thin woman who appeared to know everything and everybody on the course.

"Yes, and Boxer'll get boxed in," replied her friend, equally knowing; "he always does, you see. I wouldn't back him to-day at a hundred to one."

"Oh, that's nonsense. He'll win some day."

"Not till they let him," her friend replied meaningly, and she lowered her voice. "Do you know, they say that whenever Boxer runs there are two jockeys always told off specially to prevent him winning."

"Oh, I've heard that, of course, but whether it's true or not goodness only knows."

"Well, you see if I'm not right. He'll never get a look in."

The start was delayed quite a long while. Several of the horses seemed fractious and to be almost purposely refusing to come into line. The newspapers said next day that Boxer was certainly the worst offender, and perhaps they weren't far wrong. Certainly young Lane appeared to be having a lot of trouble with his mount, and time after time it was Boxer alone who prevented the field being sent off.

The starter was most patient--perhaps partly because the rider was a stranger to South Australia, and partly also because he could not have been unaware of the cloud the horse was under.

The boy did not seem a bit flurried, however, and took everything most deliberately. He said afterwards that the jockeys on either side squeezed in directly he came near--so he just invariably made Boxer back out, and tried again.

Andy McIver was watching everything most intently. He smiled gleefully at Horrocks.

"The little devil," he chuckled, "he's doing it on purpose. With any luck he'll poach a flying start."

And a flying start he did poach. When for about the tenth time Lane tried to take his allotted position without being squeezed, and for the tenth time it seemed that purposely both his neighbours closed in, the starter called out sharply to them to keep their mounts straight, and then instantly after let the tapes go up. Lane had been hustling the gelding forward quickly to take the clear opening that had been made for him, and the start caught him on the move.

He got off a clear length in front of everything else.

"Good boy," roared old Andy, "he's smart as paint. A fiver to nothing now, he rides a good race."

The boy on Boxer was quite aware that so far the luck had been all his way, and crouching low in his saddle he thankfully regarded the clear open course before him. He was sure they had been trying to beat him at the start.

The race was a mile and a half, and Horrocks's trainer had given him implicit directions as to how to ride his mount.

"Keep well up, lad," he had said, "for the first half of the journey; then ease him a bit and make your run two furlongs from home. Boxer can sprint as well as stay. Don't be afraid if you're laying back a bit just as you come round the bend, but if you've escaped so far look out for trouble there. They'll try to run you wide at the turn. Don't use your whip too much."

The boy was sensible enough to follow instructions, and instantly he was clear began to make the most of his mount.

He urged Boxer along at good rattling pace, and it thrilled every nerve of his wiry little body to feel the way the good animal responded to his call. Boxer was only a four-year-old and had not been over-raced. He had a beautiful even motion and covered the ground in a fine devouring stride.

Half a mile from the start he was going like the wind, and still in front. Out of the tail of his eye, however, Lane could just see the fine black head of Beetle Boy looming on his flanks. In the middle distance Boxer was still first, but Beetle Boy was now level with his girths, with Rose Darling just about a head farther behind.

"Has he shot his bolt, Charlie?" anxiously asked old Andy on the stand.

"No, no," testily replied Horrocks, without taking the glasses from his eyes. "Good boy, riding to orders, that's all."

Half a mile from home Boxer had dropped back to fourth on the outside, but his jockey could feel him full of running, and had eased him only because of the definite instructions he had received.

He was running dead level with Repeater, alongside him, but the latter was all out and Lane could see he was tiring and was obviously a beaten horse.

Suddenly, a good fifty yards before the turn for home, Repeater began to swerve badly, threatening to carry Boxer out wide with him. His jockey appeared to have lost control.

In an instant Lane had seen his danger and throwing his instructions to the wind, he suddenly urged on Boxer to topmost speed. He struck him sharply with the whip and Boxer leapt forward like an arrow from a bow.

He escaped interference by a hair's breadth and ruthlessly cutting down his other opponents entered the straight for home a good length ahead.

The boy felt rather frightened then at what he had done. He knew he had commenced his final run quite two hundred yards earlier than he had been told to, but he consoled himself with the belief that he had done quite rightly. If he had not speeded Boxer up he would inevitably have been driven out wide by the fast-tiring Repeater, and would have then entered the straight in an entirely hopeless position.

Now, at any rate, everything was clear and if Boxer were only good enough, he should win.

He knew he could not ease his mount, even ever so little again. He had started Boxer on his final run, and he judged it best to keep what advantage he had gained by his sudden and premature speeding-up.

All at once his anxiety left him. A born judge of a thorough-bred, the glorious and perfect action of his mount enthralled him. Boxer was putting in a tremendous pace, but he was still running with a beautiful easy motion, and there was no sign whatever of any tiring or distress.

A fierce excitement thrilled through the boy. Again, as when they had first started, he was leading in front of them all and again he had the great wide staring course open and free before him. On, on the whole field thundered.

Crouching low against the tremendous rush of wind he rode the gelding only with his hands.

The shouting from the stands came up to him like the roar of some mighty hurricane, and then slowly and stealthily so it seemed, the form of another horse loomed up close alongside of him, on the rails.

He did not, however, turn his head. He just stared hard and patiently at the black spot in the distance that he knew was the judge's box. Every second it was getting bigger and bigger.

The horse near to him came farther into view. Its head reached level with Boxer's girths, it came nearer and nearer still and then it stopped.

Without turning he knew it was Rose Darling. Her jockey was flogging her savagely with his whip. The judge's box was very near now.

The boy was sorely tempted to strike Boxer, too, but instinct told him the gelding was all out and a cut now might make him swerve and lose the race. So he just held patiently on in a grim agony of suspense.

Only about five yards farther to go now and still Rose Darling was just by Boxer's neck. A mist came over the boy's eyes, and for a moment his heart stood still.

A mighty roar of sound and it was over. Boxer had won by a head.

Old Andy wiped the perspiration from his forehead and then solemnly shook Boxer's owner by the hand.

"By gad," he almost whispered, "but what a race and what a little artist the chap is! If he'd lifted his whip once, ever so little, he'd have lost us the race."

The apprentice jockey received a tremendous ovation from the crowd. Nearly all of them had lost their money over the race, but the masterly way in which the little fellow had matched himself against the jockey of Rose Darling, one of the finest riders in the State, appealed vividly to their imaginations and they cheered heartily when he came in.

The boy at first tried hard to appear bored, as he had seen the crack jockeys always did, but his youth was not proof for long against the cheering he received and he soon showed his delight in a broad and impish grin.

Over 7,000 had been invested in the totalisator, and Boxer returned the handsome dividend of 18 15s. 0d. for every pound that had been invested on his chance.

Old Andy asked for his dividend in the largest notes available, but even then he found his breast pocket inconveniently small for all the money he had received.

Some of his friends remonstrated with him for drawing so large a sum of money on the course.

"Why man," urged one of them reprovingly, "it's tempting Providence to walk about with so much money here. Why on earth didn't you leave it until next week and draw it at the offices in the city? You're always pointed out as a dreadful gambler and lots of people know by now that you've had two good wins."

Andy laughed happily.

"Let 'em all know it--I don't care. I want to handle the money in good plain notes to see what I've won. None of your uninteresting cheques for me. I get plenty of them every day."

"But surely you're not going home alone."

"Certainly I am, and in my own good car. I'm driving myself too. I've been here all this afternoon quite alone."

But Andy McIver was mistaken here. He had never been quite alone. The whole time long, Death in a dreadful form had been hovering near him. Death at the hands of a pale-faced and insignificant-looking man. He was disguised, this man, and he wore a false beard. Never once had his eyes left Andy since he had arrived on the course. He had followed him every minute of the time. He had watched him laugh and talk and seen him gather in his winnings with a dreadful smile. He knew all about Andy, and he had marked him down.

Andy McIver was looking his last upon this gay scene, and it was well he could take in the beauty and the happiness of it all, for it was his last day on earth.

Never again would he come here in joyful health and strength, never again would he blithely smile and greet his friends, never again would he see the glory of those long low hills.

He had had a long life had Andy, but the sands were running low now and Fate was calling him for his last race. His colours were 'all black' and it was Death who rang the saddling bell.

The racing was all over a few minutes after five, but it was quite half an hour later before old Andy left the course. He had found so many friends to chat with, that time had passed much more quickly than he thought.

"By Jove," he exclaimed presently, looking suddenly at his watch, "I shall catch it. We dine at six and there'll be the very devil to pay if I am late," and with a final nod and wave of his hand he bustled to his car.

A police inspector came by just as he was getting in.

"Hullo, Inspector," Andy called out genially; "how are you to-day? Still the best-looking in the force, I see. My word, but you've been quite a picture to-day."

Inspector Romilly turned sharply to see who was addressing him so familiarly and then, recognising McIver, allowed his face to break into a pleased and pleasant smile.

He certainly was a good-looking man, this Inspector of the Adelaide police. He had a fine strong face with good clear-cut features and a pair of very thoughtful grey eyes. He wore a military moustache, with the ends slightly waxed, and carried himself proudly as becomes a man who had fought with distinction in the great war. He was about thirty-five years of age.