One Saturday I took Lucy to the races. It was the first time we had been out for the day alone, and my heart beat with excitement when I called at the shop for her.

Old Brickett had said nothing when I told him where we were going. He had just shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, as if to imply we were both well on the way to the dogs, and then turned his head away.

Lucy looked supremely pretty in her white dress. I dare say — in fact, I am sure — it must have been a very cheap dress, for she had very little money — but whatever it cost, it just suited her to perfection.

She looked so bright and happy, too, with the eager happiness of a little child. Her face was greatly flushed, and her eyes shone brightly, and every line of her supple body spoke unmistakably of youth, pleasure and love.

Of course, she had never been to any races before. Races were quite contrary to all chapel tradition, and in my own mind I wondered mildly that she had acquiesced so willingly when I had asked her.

I meant to enjoy the afternoon for sure. I had taken twenty pounds out of the Savings Bank, and privately had determined to have what the detestable Waller always called a flutter.

The races were at Morphettville, and we went down first class. A man opposite to me started talking about the afternoon’s programme to me, and to Lucy’s manifest amazement I seemed to know as much about the horses engaged as he. I had not lived for five years with Waller for nothing. All the jargon of the turf was familiar to me. I knew about horses ‘winning by streets,’ or ‘being down the course,’ and ‘running like pigs.’ I knew about them ‘getting off’ badly from the ‘gate,’ or ‘poaching a flying start.’

I knew that when ‘the money was on’ the brutes ran like blazes, but when ‘Johnny Strongarm’ was in the saddle the wretched backer always lost his money. I knew a lot about the horses and their owners, too. I knew that Kitty’s Darling was a terror at the gate, that Blacktoes couldn’t stay a yard beyond six furlongs, and that the owner of The Boss was a first-class racing crook, who deserved to get six months.

Much of this varied and miscellaneous information I then passed on to my greatly interested vis-a-vis. He was a genial, simple sort of soul, and in return implored me not to forget to back Rosyfingers in the second race.

Arriving on the course, it was strange that almost the first man I knocked up against was the owner of The Boss himself. He was a well-known racing man, Bob Hales by name, and I had good reason to remember him. He was a member of the City Council and a butcher by trade. The day following a letter of mine to the newspapers, someone had prompted him to phone up our firm and ask them if my interference in public matters was done with their approval. He had hinted that my reflections on the capacity of the police, and the authorities generally, would not tend to advance the interests of the firm of Messrs. Winter & Winter themselves. Fortunately. Mr. William had answered the phone and all friend Bob had got had been a nasty snub for his pains.

I had not forgotten him, however, and had made a mental note of his address.

He was generally regarded as a real racing crook, but a very clever one too — so clever that no one had ever been able to bring him to book for actually crossing over the line.

He had quite a respectable racing stable, but always ran his horses, win or lose, wholly to please himself. If he himself wanted them to win they invariably ran well, but if he didn’t want them to they always ran nowhere. He was well served by a jockey of the same kidney — a very clever rider, but one notoriously to be nobbled for a price, and no doubt old Hales always paid him well.

The public were always interested in his horses, for some of them were the best in the State, but they were always very uncertain about backing them, because they could never tell exactly when they were out to win.

Time after time the public had plunged heavily on them, and then — they had run, as Waller said, “like pigs.” A week or two later, when they were almost friendless in the machine, they would score easily and return heavy dividends — fifteen and even twenty to one.

No one seemed ever to know who were the lucky investors on these occasions, but it was generally agreed that old Hales had managed it somehow. The bookmakers were afraid of him, too, for several times, with all their caution, they had been badly burned by taking on his bets.

Just now everyone was interested in his horse, The Boss, down to run that afternoon in the Cup. Three times in succession had the public backed him recently, and three times had they come down with a thud. Only a fortnight back, old Hales had made a great show by ostensibly putting fifty pounds on at the tote, as well as making several private bets at Tattersalls Club in the city.

The public had tumbled head over heels to get a slice of the good thing, and The Boss had carried more money almost than all the other horses put together.

But the beast hadn’t won. It had just ambled along and died off to nothing when the pinch came.

Old Hales had sworn a lot at the jockey and trumpeted everywhere what great sums he had lost. He had also talked of giving the horse a long rest before racing him again.

But apparently he had thought better of it, for he was now running him again this afternoon, notwithstanding that rumors were being industriously spread about that he was suffering from rheumatism in his hind legs.

All this I had learned from hearing Waller talk about it at the office. Waller just hated Hales, for many were the half-crowns he had lost in backing his horses when they were not, as Waller found out afterwards, intended to win.

This, then, was the man I noticed as Lucy and I were coming on to the course. He was a big, stout man, with shaggy eyebrows and a big red face.

He was standing idly watching the crowd pass through the turnstiles. Suddenly I saw him wink knowingly at someone close behind me, and I turned round just in time to catch the faint answering smile on the face of a tall, thin man, in a sort of faded orange-colored crash suit. I shouldn’t probably have taken the slightest interest in the matter if the thin man, seeing me turn round, hadn’t instantly cut short his smile and passed Bob Hales with a calm, impassive face, as if he didn’t know him at all.

What’s going on here, I thought, and then I remembered something else Waller had said once — stung probably to bitterness by the loss of some good half-crown.

“The only way,” he had told the office then, “the only way to find out the old blighter’s real intentions with his damned horses is to become a blooming angel and shadow him all day. Then we should find out, but perhaps only at the last moment, what the old scoundrel really meant to do.”

“Good,” I said to myself, “I’ll keep my eye on you, my beauty, and it’ll be easy, too, with your friend here, because of his highly-colored crash suit.”

I took Lucy round to the totalisator and explained to her the wonderful way in which the amount of any money invested on any horse is immediately recorded on the face of the machine, in full view for everyone to see.

It was not my first visit to a racecourse — I had paid one furtive visit on a Saturday a fortnight back, and thanks to the depravity of the life of the wretched Waller and to my own good memory in remembering most of what he had said, had soon got into the hang of things generally.

I invested five shillings in the first race. I backed The Barge because Lucy said his number was seven on the card and it was the seventh day of the month. But the coincidence didn’t click, and I remonstrated with Lucy tenderly that, generally speaking, it was a rotten way of acquiring wealth.

In the next race, I remembered what my genial friend in the railway carriage had said about Rosyfingers. She looked a pretty little horse to me, and, as Lucy was greatly taken with her jockey’s colors — French grey, rose sleeves and cap — I thought her worth an investment.

Looking up at the totalisator, I saw she was a good second favorite and being well backed.

I walked over towards the long row of pound ticket windows intending to take a ticket there, but passing on my way the one single window where the five-pound tickets only were obtained, I happened to glance inside.

To my astonishment, I recognised the tickets operator there as one of the clerks of the Adelaide bank where Winter & Winter had their account. I had often chatted with him when I had gone in on business for the firm.

I thought it would be great fun to astonish him for once, and quite indifferent to my probable loss, approached the window and boldly demanded a ticket for number nine.

“Great Scot,” he ejaculated, as he handed over the ticket, “it’s you, Wacks, backing in fivers, is it? Well, I’m damned.”

“Oh,” I laughed airily, “I like a flutter occasionally on a good thing.”

We climbed up to the back row of the grandstand to watch the race. It was a hot day even for Adelaide. Well over a hundred and five degrees in the shade, it was a beautiful dry heat. A heat that stimulated and did not depress. A dry, clear air that shook the stiffness from one’s bones and gave a sense of lightness and exhilaration to all one’s movements.

The gay scene below us was one of bustle and excitement — of brightly flashing colors on all sides, of happy, smiling people walking to and fro, of proud, slender-loined thoroughbreds prancing and curvetting in the beauty of their life and strength, and, back of all, of the long, low, purple hills, shimmering away into the distance where the blue sea touched the sky.

The band was playing “O Sole Mio,” and the soft, entrancing melody stole up to us and mingled sweetly with our thoughts.

We hardly spoke at all, but just sat silently drinking in the beauty and ecstasy of everything.

To my great joy and to Lucy’s no small amazement, Rosyfingers came bustling home all on her own. She paid ?4 2s. for each pound invested, and I drew ?20 10s. for my ?5 ticket.

The next race was the cup, and I at once bethought myself of Mr. Bob Hales, the crafty owner of The Boss.

I found him right enough, just where I expected — in front of the tote. He was watching the figures going up with a stony and impassive face. A few yards from him, but apparently quite a stranger to him now, was the man in the orange-colored crash suit, the man I had seen him wink at earlier in the day.

Now what were they up to, I wondered, but I guessed pretty well. Bob Hales was watching the totalisator to see if it were worth his while to let The Boss win. If the public put their money on the animal sufficiently to make the dividend likely to be a small one after the race, then, of course, he wouldn’t back it, and it wouldn’t win. But if the public had got tired of the wretched beast and didn’t put their money on, and consequently the dividend was going to be a large one, then — I reckoned — he would throw a hundred pounds or so into the tote at the very latest moment, and The Boss would then run for all he was worth.

He would, of course, have to give the signal somehow to his jockey, so that the latter would know what he was expected to do.

But I wasn’t the only one watching the wily Bob. Not a few sharp-looking gentlemen were hovering furtively round to see what he was going to do, and throw in their money, too, if he made any movement to the tote.

The minutes went quickly by, and very little money was going on The Boss. He was number one on the card, and it was plain to see that the public generally were fairly sick of him at last.

Five minutes before the race was due to start not a hundred pounds out of a total of over five thousand was credited under his name.

The start was taking place almost to front of the Derby stand, and suddenly Bob Hales, after mopping his forehead vigorously with a conspicuous-looking red handkerchief, turned sharply round and pushed his way towards the railings near to where the horses were lined up.

Good! I thought, he has made up his mind at last, and gone off now to let the jockey know in some clever prearranged manner exactly what he has to do.

But what about the gentleman in crash? I watched interestedly. He was evidently the master key, but be had not moved, and he had made no sign. He was just carelessly watching the tote figures in a mild, uninterested sort of way.

Again I tried to fathom their minds. Of course, he was waiting for the starting bell to ring. There was always, I knew, two or three minutes’ interval between its ringing and the actual starting of the race, for it was not until the bell had rung that the starter commenced to line up the waiting horses in their proper order, according to the positions they had drawn at the barrier.

The bell clanged at last, and, as I had expected, my gentleman moved off leisurely towards the five pound window of the tote. Good, again, I thought — I, too, would participate in the good thing.

I elbowed in before him — through the now quickly thinning crowd — and reached the window with him only just behind. There were three or four still in front of me, and, of course, only one was being served at a time. The tote window was narrow, and we had to file up each in our turn.

The tickets seemed to be being dealt out very slowly, and my temper rose at the delay. Then an inspiration seized me. The start might take place any second now, and then bang down would go the window automatically, as the starting tapes went up.

What if I could baulk the man behind me and prevent him getting his money on! I looked quickly down behind me. He was holding an unfolded hundred pound note in his right hand.

I whistled to myself. Whew! What a have. A hundred pounds at about fifteen to one.

The man began to get anxious.

“Hurry up, you goats there,” he shouted angrily over my shoulder; “brisk along, or we shall be here all night — do you hear?”

The two men remaining in front of me turned round frowningly to see who had called them goats, and my friend behind the window leaned round to see who was making the fuss.

“All right sir, all in good time,” he called out; “we shan’t be long now.”

At last my turn came, and I had thought what I would do.

“One on number one,” I drawled slowly, winking solemnly and jerking my head towards the man behind.

“One it is,” replied the clerk grinning, and he slowly clicked the machine and passed over the ticket.

“Another on number one,” I went on as slowly as before —“another and another.”

“Curse you, you fools — be quick — damn you, don’t you hear?” and the gentleman in crash, losing all patience at last, thrust a large and dirty hand on to my shoulder and made to push me away.

“Twenty tickets on number one,” he shouted, “quick, or you’ll be too late late — quick, quick.”

I was in a fearful temper at once and sent him sprawling with a sudden vicious blow on the chest.

“Damned fool yourself,” I cried threateningly as he picked himself up. “No, don’t you come near me, or you’ll get worse than that, my friend. Who wants your filthy paws on them, you beast — keep clear of me, I say.”

The scuffle had attracted instant attention from the crowd, and a number surged round to enjoy the row.

A policeman happened to be handy, too, and pushed his way authoritatively to where we stood.

“What’s up?” he asked sharply. “What’s it all about?”

The ticket clerk strained his head out of the window and explained. “The tall man was insolent and wanted tickets out of his turn. He started the trouble, and it’s all his fault.”

“Any charge?” asked the policeman, beginning to take out his book.

“Not from me,” I answered contemptuously, and started to adjust my coat collar that had got turned up in the scuffle.

“Well, you be careful,” jerked the policeman sternly to the man in crash, “or I’ll lock up you,” and he moved off majestically through the crowd.

“Twenty tickets on number one,” almost shrieked my late opponent, rushing frantically up to the tote window.

“Twenty ——”

A fearful shout from the crowd. “They’re off,” and the window banged down sharply in the fellow’s face.

For a moment he stood stock still in baffled rage, and then, with a very white face cut off towards the owners’ stand.

“He’s going to tell old Hales,” I chuckled gleefully, and then I remembered, not without regret, that my little adventure was likely to cost me dear.

“By Jove!” I said to myself grimly. “Twenty pounds on The Boss, and perhaps, after all, he’ll not be able to win.”

I ran up quickly to where I had told Lucy to wait for me, at the top of the grassy slope in front of the grand stand.

I found her at once, and breathlessly informed her she should have fifty pounds if The Boss won.

“Look out for his colors now — orange and grey.” We had had a good look at the horse — in the paddock — earlier in the afternoon, and had both thought what a magnificent looking beast he was.

He was a great big fellow — jet black — and with great big, liquid eyes. He towered high above all the other horses, and was easily the biggest there.

When I had reached Lucy the horses were already well away, and in less than a minute, so it seemed, they were right opposite to us on the other side of the course.

We could easily pick out The Boss. Lucy said he was fifth or sixth — at any rate, he was well up and not far behind the leaders.

“Ben Thomson’s going well,” remarked a man in front of us. “Dear old thing, if only he were a few years younger. I’ve been backing him for years and — Lord! the money he must have cost me — I must have paid for him by now.”

“Look at Eyes of Gray,” called out a woman. “Matson’s got her on the rails — they’ll never catch her now. You see.”

“The Boss won’t win,” remarked another man. “He’s too far back among the crowd.”

“Just wait,” replied his friend. “If he gets through he’ll eat ’em up, that is, if Shooter wants him to.”

Round into the straight they came — seven or eight of them — all in a straight line, it seemed to me, but no sign of The Boss in front — he was still just behind.

Then suddenly a man yelled, “I told you so — there’s Shooter coming up,” and like a great black wave, The Boss broke through.

An angry storm of shouting, for The Boss was leading by a length.

“Damn him,” someone shouted, “sold again. Oh, hold him, Eyes of Gray — hold him, you little dear.”

A beautiful little chestnut mare had spurted grandly to the black beast’s flanks, and was making a gallant effort to overtake him, but she couldn’t keep it up, and The Boss was again out clear.

A fine handsome roan then got up close and the crowd shrieked again for The Boss to be overtaken. “Come on, Storm, come on — use your whip, man — use your whip.”

But what was the good — the great black beast shook them all off contemptuously, and came rattling past the judge’s box, winning, as I knew Waller would have said, by half a street.

The crowd booed angrily as Bob Hales went out to lead him in, but the old man only smiled unconcernedly, and took no notice of their menacing attitude towards him.

But he didn’t look so unconcerned a few minutes later, when the man in the crash suit at last managed to get to his side. There was a blank look of astonishment — an angry interchange of words and finally almost an actual fight, with the dark suit man again as the aggressor.

Some of Hales’ friends interfered, but the quarrel had attracted a good deal of attention and, something of the affair at the tote window having got about over the course, the public naturally put two and two together and were immensely tickled with the way the old man had been served.

Over six thousand pounds had been invested in the tote, and considerably less than two hundred had gone on The Boss. The dividend returned was ?24 5s. and with my four five-pound tickets I picked up ?485. I was almost speechless with my good fortune, and Lucy quite thought all the riches in the world were gathered in the thick wad of notes that she saw me receive at the paying-out window.

After a good deal of demur I persuaded her to take, then and there, the fifty pounds that I had promised her if The Boss won. We had quite a little fight about it, but it was only when I insisted significantly that she would be wanting every penny of it very shortly for her bottom drawer that she gave in. A faraway gentle look came into her eyes, and she gave me a fond pressure of her hand in reward.

Dear little Lucy! She had half a crown, later on, on The Dentist, and was very annoyed that it came in only ‘fourth.’

“What!” she exclaimed prettily in painful and reproachful surprise, “and don’t I get anything this time? It looked to be running so well.”

There were two other lumps of sugar in my cup of joy that afternoon.

The Premier was at the races and, with my face evidently fresh in his mind, he recognised me at once. Lucy and I were standing just in front of the grand stand when the great man came by, accompanied by the Governor of the State. He pulled up and smilingly held out his hand.

“How do you do, Mr. Wacks, this is better than patrolling dangerous roads at night — now isn’t it?”

I introduced him to Lucy and we were both in turn made known to the Governor. We chatted interestedly for a few minutes, and, of course, everyone was looking at us and taking us all in. A press photographer snapped us all together, and to my great joy I caught sight of Waller — the hated Waller — staring at us through the railings of the cheap enclosure. His eyes were wide with amazement.

It was nearly 11 o’clock before I brought Lucy home. We had come to a clear understanding. I had taken her for a walk among the hills, and I had asked her to be my wife.

It was a starless night, and in a world of dark and stillness we had sat clasped in ecstasy in each others arms. Her sweet full lips had clung lingering to mine. I had felt her heart beat, first, fast in fear — then slower on her confidence returning — and finally to the soft and gentle rhythm of assured faith and trust.

The night had made a heaven for us, and yet so strange is life — there was a subtle sense of sorrow in me as Lucy lay quiet and all but sleeping in my arms. It was the sorrow of something gone — of some high summit scaled — of depths of happiness we would never plumb again.

For ever I had set my seal upon her and for ever now would she remember this first avowal of her love.

Things would never be quite the same to her.

Love, I knew, she might perhaps again — but never more would love wake in her from its first maiden dream.

Never more would passion be a stranger to her; for never could it wait to watch again the lights and splendors of its maiden dawn rising and crimsoning through the hills and valleys of her soul.