THERE was no doubt about my luck being out that bright summer morning, as I stood, shabby and down-at-heel, outside the General Post Office in Adelaide.

My collar was frayed away at the edges, my poor old blue suit was well worn and shabby, my hat was stained all over, with the band gone, and the burst in one of my boots marked me down clearly as a man who was not by any means in affluent circumstances. Everything about me told of being down and out.

Yet less than two months ago I had got into the train at Broken Hill with a comfortable thick wad of notes in my pocket, the result of over a year’s hard work ‘out back’ as a boundary rider. But a too-confiding trust in my fellow passengers, and a too-deep slumber as the ever-stopping train had ambled on, had been my undoing, and I had awakened at Peterborough in the dim hours of the morning to an empty carriage, and, worse still, to an empty, rifled pocket.

But it served me right. I, who had been over half the world before I was twenty-seven, and who had fought for over three years in France among one of the toughest crowds on earth; to be taken in and bamboozled by two innocent-looking old fellows who had led me to believe they were just honest farm hands going down to see their relatives in Adelaide.

Yes, I can tell you that that Saturday morning, as I stood kicking up my heels in King William Street, I was feeling pretty despondent and pretty sick with myself.

I had been doing odd jobs about the city, without, however, much success, and at that particular moment my entire possession in the world in the way of money was a one shilling piece that I was reserving for my evening meal.

I was quite alone in the world, with no parents living and no relations near to help me and no particular friends in the city upon whom I could call. It was true I had one cousin in Australia, who was reputed to be a wealthy man. He had a sheep station about thirty miles from Pimba, but I had quarrelled with him years before, and was much too proud to let him know now that I was in a bad way.

Weeks ago I had written to an old friend of my father in Melbourne, but no reply had come back, and finally I had given up even calling for any letters. I had got too ashamed of going up day after day to face the amused grins of the attendants at the delivery counter. It always seemed to me to afford them much amusement when I appeared to receive the same invariable reply, “No, nothing today.” I guessed they knew how things were with me.

I stood watching the life and bustle about the post office, wondering in a careless sort of way what was going to happen next.

A fine big grey motor drew up to the pavement and in it I saw were a man and a very pretty girl. I thought I had never seen such a pretty girl.

She was, I guessed, about twenty, of medium height, fair, with delicious blue eyes and with a beautifully slim but well-rounded figure. The man with her was undoubtedly her father. He was tall and soldierly looking, and his handsome face was burned to a deep bronze. He seemed oddly familiar to me. One who had done his bit too, I thought, as I watched him. There is no mistaking a man who has held responsible positions on active service.

He got out of the car, and nodding to the girl, went up the steps and disappeared into the post office.

I watched the girl with an unusual quickening of my heart. She looked so deliciously sweet and dainty sitting there, quite unconscious of the admiration she was evoking. She was interestedly watching the crowd that is always to be found in King William Street about mid-day. Suddenly her gaze turned in my direction, and at once her eyes were held by mine.

It would be stupid for me to pretend I am a bad specimen of an Australian. I am tall and well set up and have always carried my head proudly, as becoming one who has held a commission. Besides, a man who has smiled with death as I have for nearly four long years must surely always carry something of courage and strength about him for the rest of his life.

Well, she looked at me and I looked at her. She was a picture of luxury and prettiness, and I— well, everything about me spoke of hardship and rough times. There could not have been a greater contrast, and yet the man in me called to the woman in her, and for a moment she answered me. Then she turned her eyes quickly away, but a second later looked hesitatingly round again and gave me just the ghost of a very sweet smile.

I felt myself get hot with shame, for I was suddenly conscious of my shabby suit and my woe-begone hat, and the great burst in the toe of my right boot.

I turned quickly away from the car and banged straight into her father’s arms as he was coming down the post office steps. To my apologies he gave a genial smile.

“All right, my boy, there are no casualties this time,” and with a wave of his arm he turned towards the car.

I watched him give some directions to the chauffeur, and then, after a little difficulty in opening the door, seat himself back in the car beside what I already considered the loveliest girl in all the world.

The car turned smartly away from the pavement and made off in the direction of South Terrace.

Then I noticed suddenly that there was a pocket-book lying in the gutter, just under where the door of the car had been.

The girl’s father, I realised instantly, must have dropped it when fumbling with the door. I ran and picked it up and looked round for the car. To my satisfaction there was a block at the cross-roads and a policeman was holding up the traffic. I ran quickly up, and threading my way between the waiting vehicles, reached the side of the car. I raised my hat and held up the pocket-book.

“I think this must be yours. It was lying in the road when your car pulled away.”

The man looked at me, wondering for a second, and then clapped his hand to his breast pocket.

“Good lad,” he said, smiling, “and a very honest one too,” and then, before I knew what he was doing, he pulled a banknote out of the case and thrust it into my hand.

“Go and do yourself well; you’ve deserved it.”

I forgot my shabby clothes and was indignant at once.

“No, thank you,” I said hurriedly, “I don’t want anything for bringing it.”

“Nonsense, sir; take it. It’s a pleasure to give it you. You might have made a very good haul.” Then, shrugging his shoulders, “Well, if you’re too proud to keep it, go and back a horse with it. I’m sure it will soon leave you that way.”

Then the girl chimed in, and I thought her voice was like the tinkle of a silver bell.

“No, father, don’t be so discouraging. I’m sure he’ll back a winner. No, no, keep it,” she pleaded, looking me full in the face; “I’m sure it will bring you good luck. Good-bye;” and before I could collect my wits that had all gone when she spoke to me, the car had moved swiftly off and I was left standing still with a ten-pound note in my hand.

For a few moments I was very angry with myself. I, who had held a commission in France, to be tipped in the public street for picking up a pocket-book! Then my commonsense came back, and I thought grimly I was really a very lucky man. The ten pounds would, at any rate, be a happy respite for me, and I could buy several things that I was undoubtedly needing very much. Quick always to respond to good fortune, I began to feel quite elated.

She had said it would bring good luck to me, and I felt sure it would.

I looked furtively at the ten-pound note and, remembering my shabby condition, thought it would be best to get it changed where no remarks were likely to be made. So I went up into the post office and bought a single postcard.

Then an idea struck me. I thought I would make use of my postcard right away and send it to myself, so that at least for once there should be something waiting for me, if, indeed, I troubled to call for any letters again. Sitting down at one of the public tables, I addressed the card to “John Stratton, Esq., Poste Restante, G.P.O., Adelaide,” and I congratulated myself upon the piece of good fortune that had befallen me. I felt sure the attendants would read it.

I told myself to buck up, for my star was shining all right now, and I had only to go boldly ahead and there would be no more looking back.

I signed the card ‘Mary,’ because Mary was my favourite name, and I thought too I had heard the man say ‘Mary’ to the girl as he had got out of the car.

I dropped the card in the box, little dreaming that that simple and apparently foolish waste of a post-card was to alter the whole course of my life, and bring the girl I was dreaming about to my arms as my affianced wife within less than eighteen months from that day. Yet so it did.

As I went out of the post office the clock chimed one, and I remembered with disappointment that my new riches would not be of much use to me in smartening myself up for that day at all events. It was a Saturday, and all the shops, I knew, closed at one.

I went back to the cheap lodging house in Hindley Street, where I had been living, had a good meal, and taking heart from my brighter circumstances, did the best I could to make myself more respectable-looking.

I brushed everything carefully, and succeeded in buying a fresh tie and collar from another inmate. Another pair of boots I could not get, but with a bradawl and some well blacked string I made the burst less conspicuous, at any rate for a time.

Then I went out into the bright sunshine, feeling quite a happy man. I turned unconsciously towards the general post office again, and standing in the same place where I had stood that morning, watched the bustling crowds on their way home from work.

The trams stop just opposite the post office, and as they came up one after another, I was idly interested in their various destinations.

Presently one came up marked ‘Races,’ and I remembered in a flash what my benefactor of the morning had said.

Of course, they must have been going to the races themselves, and my heart thumped as I thought that if I went there too, I should probably see them again.

I boarded the tram at once, and, purchasing a race card from one of the noisy youngsters importuning on all sides, I leaned back and gave myself up to a study of the afternoon’s programme.

I knew something about horses, of course, for what Australian does not, and in happier and more prosperous days, had enjoyed many a good time at Victoria Park.

The racecourse is a beautiful one, and every yard of racing can be seen from anywhere.

I had intended, at first, to go into the cheap stand, but the girl’s face was haunting me, and so, indifferent to my shabby clothes, I planked down eleven and eightpence, and was soon mingling with the gay crowd on the lawn before the grandstand.

I was late in arriving, and the second race was just over. I looked everywhere for the girl and her father, but without any success, and the numbers for the third race being hoisted, I thought I would turn my attention, temporarily, at any rate, to the business of the afternoon.

This race was a Juvenile Handicap of five furlongs, and the stake money being ￡300, I guessed some pretty good animals would be in the running. There were eighteen runners, and the totalisator began to get busy at once.

THE TOTALISATOR

The Totalisator is the only legal form of betting in South Australia. At all race meetings during the half-hour immediately preceding every race, money can be invested on any particular horse by the purchase of tickets of values varying from half-a-crown to five pounds.

At the conclusion of the race all the moneys so invested — subject to a certain percentage deducted for taxes and expenses — are divided between the backers of the first and second horses in the proportion of three-fourths to the backers of the first horse and one-fourth to the backers of the second. This money is officially known as the ‘dividend.’

Occasionally when it has happened very little money has been invested on the winning horse, very large dividends have from time to time been declared, but in South Australia itself, I believe ￡184 for ￡1 invested at present holds the record.

All the later types of Totalisators are electrically controlled, and directly a ticket is torn off the drum, the amount invested is instantaneously recorded upon the indicator in full view of the public. The indicator is a large frame set in the front wall of the Totalisator building. Each horse running has its own particular slot in the frame, and its name is conspicuously printed over it. At the top of the frame there is a larger slot that indicates the total amount invested on all the runners.

The instant any money is invested on a horse — up go the figures under that particular horse’s name, and up go the ‘total amount’ figures to correspond. By these means —‘the way the betting is going’ can be followed clearly from start to finish without any chance of secrecy or mistake.

Beacon Light was evidently going to be a hot favourite, for the figures above his name were never stationary, and with every click of the machine went up fives and tens.

Next to him in favour was Homeland, and then followed six or seven all in a bunch. Much lower down in the public estimation were some horses almost unbacked, and one I noticed was a filly with the pretty name of Rose of Dawn. Eleven pounds only so far had been invested in her direction, and her number on the card was seventeen.

The horses came out of the paddock in a pretty stream of bright colour, and paraded before us on their way down to the starting post.

As far as looks went, Beacon Light was certainly a beauty. A fine upstanding colt of magnificent proportions, every curve and every movement of his body spoke of blood. His shapely neck was arched proudly, and the beautiful satin polish of his coat told of the fine condition he was in.

But they were all a good-looking lot. Just at the end came Rose of Dawn with number seventeen on the saddle-cloth. I was charmed with her at once. Rather on the light side, she was, however, a perfect little picture of a thoroughbred. She was of a light chestnut colour, with a beautifully shaped head, and had the fine large eyes that in a horse are never absent from high courage. She cantered by very much on her toes, and seemed to me to be giving her jockey plenty to look after. I saw by the number board that the jockey, Ranson, was only an apprentice, and that, no doubt, accounted for the filly’s low position in the public favour.

The horses having all gone on their way to the post, I turned back to see how the betting was going on.

It was evidently going to be a good betting race, for when I reached the lightning totalisator again, I saw that ￡2,800 odd had already been invested. Beacon Light was responsible for nearly a thousand, but Homeland was displaced by Clever Joe with five hundred and fifty to his credit. Rose of Dawn was still being neglected, and ￡38 was all that had been invested upon her.

I hesitated whether I should have a pound on her myself. Mysteriously, she reminded me of the girl in the car. Both were so dainty to look at, and both so full of the joy and movement of life. I stood hesitating, fumbling the notes in my pocket.

Then I heard a voice close behind me, and my heart thumped in my chest. I moved forward a few yards before half turning round.

Yes, there she was, and strange omen, she was wearing a big pink rose on her breast.

She was standing with two immaculately dressed men, and one I recognised as Percy Thornton, the well-known and popular owner of Beacon Light.

He was smiling confidently, and pointing to the totalisator record. Evidently he was proud of the favouritism of his colt.

How beautiful the girl looked, I thought. So animated and so interested in the busy scene before her.

I edged round the crowd, and, pulling my hat down over my eyes, took up a position quite close behind her. I wanted to hear her speak again.

“Well, you see, Miss Vane,” Percy Thornton was saying, “it looks pretty healthy for Beacon Light, doesn’t it? I do hope it will pan out all right, for the crowd will have a very decent win, although I am afraid the dividend will be a small one — not much more than six to four at the outside.”

“Well, for their sake, Mr. Thornton,” the girl replied, “I’ll hope it will win; but who owns the filly with the pretty name of Rose of Dawn?”

“Oh,” interrupted the other man, “I know all about Rose of Dawn, Miss Vane. She belongs to a very small man, in the racing way, at any rate — an Adelaide doctor. He only owns this one horse, and she is trained in a very unlucky stable. Rose of Dawn has run several times, but so far, has never shown any promise at all. But she’s a well-bred one, I can assure you, and on her mother’s side, the blood of the great Carbine runs in her veins.”

“Well,” replied the girl, “my father always insists that blood tells in the end, sooner or later. Her day will come some day, and who knows it may not be today? But come, I want to get back to the stand. I’m sure at any rate, this is going to be a pretty race,” and they moved off through the crowd.

“Vane,” I ejaculated to myself, “so that is her name is it? Then, of course, her father is General Sir Henry Vane.”

No wonder I thought his face familiar. One of the great heroes of the Mons retreat, his fine features had looked out often from the pages of the illustrated magazines, and besides, I had seen him myself several times in France.

I hesitated no longer about Rose of Dawn, but going quickly to one of the windows, took two one-pound tickets of number seventeen. Then I climbed to the top of the grandstand, and was lucky to get a seat in the corner.

My neighbour was a friendly old man, who started off talking at once.

“My word, sir,” he said, mopping his face, “it was a good pull up here, but it’s worth it. What a crowd, and what a lovely day! So clear too. A few years ago and I could have picked out every colour here without the glasses, but now my poor old eyes are very bad, and these glasses even are no good to me, although, by habit, I still always carry them. Tell me,” and he handed up a pair of very old-fashioned race glasses, “can you pick out green and gold over there? It’s Bull Dog’s colour, and I’ve got a wee bit on him.”

I took the glasses, and was able to assure him that green and gold was well-drawn in the middle, and behaving like a sheep at the gate. Then, at his suggestion, I retained the glasses and kept him informed from time to time as to what was going on.

Rose of Dawn — lilac and black sash — I noticed with satisfaction, had quietened down, and the boy on her seemed to have her well in hand.

For a long while the starter was busy, and then a great shout went up, “They’re off!”

On the whole, it was a good start, but to my distress, I saw that poor Rose of Dawn had been badly left at the post. To me, it seemed she had lost quite three or four lengths; at any rate, the lilac and black lay right back by itself, well behind all the others.

I eased my feelings with the customary short word, and put down the glasses in disgust.

“All up with the Rose,” sneered a fat, red-faced man in the row just in front of me, “they ought to have called her Rose of Dusk instead of Rose of Dawn.”

I could have hit the fellow. I felt myself, too, that it was all up with the filly, but in the last few minutes I had so come to associate her with the girl in the car that it was sacrilege to me for anyone to make the animal a subject of coarse wit.

“Hold hard, my friend,” I said angrily tapping him roughly on the shoulder; “don’t just be so ready with your opinions, for you may yet have the shock of your life.”

The man looked round in open-mouthed astonishment, as he well might, at being so unceremoniously addressed by a perfect stranger, but he was too interested in the race to say anything much, and contented himself with just scowling at me before returning to his glasses.

“How’s Bull Dog going?” asked the old man at my side, anxiously, after a few seconds.

I put up the glasses again to satisfy him and cool my anger down at the same time, but he had to repeat his question three times before I told him quickly that Bull Dog was not in the first three.

Something had happened of far more interest to me than the wretched Bull Dog’s progress in the race.

When I had put up the glasses again I could not at first find Rose of Dawn anywhere.

There were five or six horses then behind all the others, with a goodish bit of interval between them and the next batch. The lilac and black sash was, however, nowhere among them, and I was thinking she must have been pulled up altogether, when, to my amazement, I suddenly spotted her well up with the middle bunch of horses, but right clear of them all on the outside. Her jockey, I realised, must have forced her to a tremendous spurt to have made up so much ground so quickly. I knew it was a very risky thing to do, but she was apparently now running easily with that beautiful even motion of the perfectly-trained thoroughbred.

As I watched with a thrill of exultation, I saw her gradually draw away towards the flanks of the leaders. They came round the bend into the straight, and the usual storm of shouting went up.

Homeland was just leading, but he had Beacon Light in close attendance, and I noticed the crack was running without effort. A couple of lengths behind came Clever Joe, Seaboy, and the Dame, and then close behind them, with her beautiful head just level with their flanks, came Rose of Dawn.

Her young jockey was riding her like an artist, as cool and collected as you could wish, just giving her her head and letting her choose her own pace. And the pace was terrific.

Two hundred yards from home the leading horse dropped suddenly out of the picture, but Seaboy and the Dame had closed rapidly with the favourite, with Rose of Dawn now a good fourth. Beacon Light, however, had evidently a bit in hand, for his jockey was smiling confidently, and made no attempt to use his whip.

“The favourite wins! The favourite wins! Beacon Light walks home,” yelled the crowd. “No, no, it’s Clever Joe,” for Clever Joe had at last got his head to the favourite’s neck. And all the while I saw Rose of Dawn closing in on them with a long, deadly swing, coming nearer and nearer, with the white-faced boy upon her crouching low down on her neck.

Then suddenly a woman near me shrieked, “Oh, look at the lilac one; look at the lilac and black!” And well they might look. A few seconds before, the three first horses had all been bunched close together well ahead of Rose of Dawn, but the filly had now suddenly flashed level with them, like a falling star.

The jockey on Beacon Light saw the danger at once, and struck his whip sharply. The favourite shook off Seaboy and Clever Joe without effort, but Rose of Dawn still went forward with him. Down came the whip again, but Rose of Dawn was still there.

They were now not more than ten yards from home, and beautiful colt and beautiful filly were locked by themselves in a mighty death struggle.

The blood of generations of great ancestors called to them in their veins, and neither flinched under the punishing strain. Stride for stride, head and head together, nearer and nearer they came. The excitement was intense. In a mighty roar from the crowd they passed the judge’s box, and a great shout went up, “Dead heat, dead heat!” But no.

Almost to the last stride, the boy on the filly, with consummate judgment, had withheld his whip, and then, right on the winning post, he had struck her sharply on the flank, and she had responded to beat the favourite by a short head.

Up went number seventeen in the frame, and I drew a deep breath of relief. But I felt really sorry, too.

That I should be a good winner by the success of Rose of Dawn I well knew, but all thought of sordid loss or gain had, for the moment, been entirely swept away by the glory of the great struggle I had just witnessed. Nothing could have been finer, and as I say, I was almost sorry it had not been given a dead heat.

Nearly everyone left the stand and went down to see the horses come in, but I felt quite sick with excitement, and remained in my seat until I saw the dividend had gone up.

Sixty-one pounds ten shillings was the dividend declared for each pound, and with my two pounds, I was entitled to a hundred and twenty-three.

As can be imagined, the paying out windows were not very thronged with crowds waiting to draw their dividends, as when a favourite wins, but, as often happens when a long-priced-winner comes home, a little knot of curious people had gathered round to see what sort of individuals they were who were going to draw the money.

One man only was waiting to be paid when I arrived at the window, but as there was some mistake in the number of notes he had been handed, I was kept waiting a little time.

I was very excited with the thought of having won so much money, but made my face as impassive-looking as possible, and glanced idly at the people standing round.

One man in particular I noticed, perhaps because he was taking good stock of me. He looked me up and down two or three times, and my shabby hat and burst boot in particular, appeared to interest him. He himself was quite an ordinary, commonplace-looking man, dark, and with rather deep-set eyes. He was well dressed in a neat blue suit. He was standing close to a much shorter man, and they were evidently friends, because I saw him scribble something on the race card he was holding in his hand and hand it across.

During all my life I have often noticed, in moments of suppressed excitement, what absurd and trivial things are apt to impress themselves upon one’s mind. Here was a case in point. I wasn’t a bit interested in this man. Yet I subconsciously noticed everything about him, and as he raised his arm to replace the cigarette in his mouth, I even noticed that the right sleeve of his coat had a neat but still conspicuous patch in it just right near the end, as if it had recently been burnt.

Also, I noticed he was wearing his wrist watch on his right wrist, and that his companion had the disagreeable habit of spitting whilst he smoked.

I drew my hundred and twenty-three pounds all right, and pushing the notes well down in my breast pocket, buttoned up my coat tightly, and mingled again with the crowd.

There was no sign of the girl anywhere, and I watched the next two races without making any investment.

It was a good thing for me, too, because they were both won by animals I had never heard of and I should have had nothing to guide me in my choice. The last race of the day was a mile Welter and as no favourite had so far won a race that afternoon, I determined to give my prevailing good fortune another run and have a good stake on the best-favoured horse in the betting. Nothing ever pays better than to follow up one’s luck when it is in a winning vein.

It was again a good betting race, with fourteen runners, and three horses were being almost equally favoured.

Indeed, I had to wait almost to the last moment to know which was going to be the favourite, and then I took ten five-pound tickets almost just before the ‘off’ was shouted.

The favourite won easily, and returned a dividend of ￡3 15s., bringing me the nice profit of ￡137 on the race.

I had won two hundred and sixty pounds on the afternoon, but as I walked off the course, with my shabby clothes and the burst in my boot looking more horrible and more conspicuous than ever, I doubted if anyone would have dreamed from my appearance that I had even a solitary pound in my possession.