For more than a month, I remained on at Velvet Hills, and then, leaving the station to the capable care of the manager, came down to Adelaide to make the city my permanent headquarters.

I took possession of one of the places that had come to me near Mitcham. It had such fine surroundings.

It was as beautiful a home as one could wish, right at the very foot of the hills, with a glorious old world garden full of lovely flowers, with fruit trees and vines, with gently playing fountains, and with in fact everything that would speak always to the mind of youth and tell of love, peace and happiness.

I furnished it with the best that money could buy, having Mary always in my mind, and making sure all the time, that it was there I should be bringing her when our honeymoon had waned.

I called on the Chief within a few days of coming down. Candidly I wanted his advice, and he was the only friend I had in the city.

He was genuinely pleased to see me, and met me with a hearty shake of the hand.

“Well, my boy,” he exclaimed genially, “so you’ve come this time without being fetched. Any more trouble on the board — have you got the sack?”

“No Chief,” I answered cheerfully, “but it’s a very different person that stands before you now. I mean very different to the poor hunted wretch who stood here last time.”

“Dear me, if my memory serves me right, it was a very insolent young man that stood before me once, with very little of the hunted wretch about his face. But, I see you’re togged up a bit now — quite like an English swell. What horse have you been backing lately?”

“Chief,” I said seriously, “I’ve come into money. I’m a very rich man.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. I’ve come to tell you about it and get your advice too, on another matter.”

The Chief listened most interestedly, and it quite warmed my heart to see the genuine pleasure he took in my good fortune.

When I had finished and he had congratulated me many times over, he asked me kindly how he could help me.

“Look here,” I said bluntly, “I want to get to know Sir Henry Vane.”

“But don’t you know him already — didn’t he give you that tenner in King William Street once?”

“Yes, but I don’t mean that way at all. I want to know him socially. I want to know the family.”

The Chief stared for a moment, and then a broad grin broke over his face. “So ho! my lad,” he exclaimed all smiles. “It isn’t Sir Henry you want to know, it’s Miss Mary you’re interested about. Now I come to think of it, you once wasted three-quarters of an hour of the valuable time of four of my best men, by going into a cafe and sitting there to gaze at Miss Vane. Oh yes, I remember all about it now, and so that’s the job you’re on, is it?”

“Look here again, Chief,” I said solemnly, “It’s my intention to marry Miss Vane.”

“Oh, is it? Well, good luck to you, my boy; but let me tell you straight — right at the beginning; you’re taking on something deuced stiff in setting your cap there.”

“I know that perfectly well,” I replied, “and I’ve come to you because I know for certain that if anyone can help me, you can. You know Sir Henry, don’t you?”

“Yes, John, I know him.”

“Well, couldn’t you put me in the way of getting to know him?”

“Look here, lad, I’ll tell you all about Sir Henry and his family, and you can then judge for yourself. You know where they live; up at Aviemore, on Mount Lofty. He and his sister, who keeps house for him, and Miss Mary. Now, to begin with, they’re very rich. Your money will be of no use to you. I mean, if you were as rich as Croesus and Sir Henry didn’t like you — he’d just turn you down as soon as look at you — if you went near. Last fall, there were two fellows after Miss Mary, besides Percy Thornton, who’s always on the job. One was young Felders of Sydney — pots of money and all that, but devilish fast with the girls. He made a dead set on Mary directly he saw her, but he never got the ghost of a look in. Sir Henry told him flatly he didn’t wish him to know her. Then, there was the Tavish man. No scandal about girls there, but rumours of shady financial ways that had made him rich. Just the same ‘keep off the grass, please,’ straight to his face. I must say Miss Vane was not apparently taken with either of these gentlemen, for she plainly acted with her father in choking them off. So you see, my boy, money’s nothing to them. Now about their social life. There’s no more exclusive set in all Australia — they’re most deucedly particular whom they admit to terms of friendship. No, they’re not a bit snobby. They have acquaintances everywhere in all walks of life; rich and poor, it doesn’t make any difference.

“Plenty of acquaintances I say, but friends — ah! that’s the difficulty. They keep themselves very much to themselves. It takes a long while before any one can say they’re friends of the family. It’s a deuced hard set to get into. Before you’re ever invited up to dinner, or indeed into the house, you’ve first got to be thoroughly approved of by Sir Henry. He’s a man of the world. He’s quite a democrat in his way, and free and easy, and hail-fellow-well-met with, as I say, all sorts of people here. But behind it all, he’s still got the prejudices of the class in which he was born. He’s an aristocrat at heart, and keeps his family proudly to himself. You can get to know Sir Henry himself easily, in a way. He races, and if you race, as I expect you will, you’ll soon have a speaking acquaintanceship with him. If you go straight and don’t have your horses pulled, and don’t let the poor public be done in too often by too obviously in and out running, then Sir Henry will be always pleasant to you and give you a friendly nod when he sees you. But wait; that won’t mean he’s going to let you get behind him to his womenfolk — see? He’ll be quite nice to you, but it will probably end there. He won’t introduce you necessarily to Miss Mary. In a word John — you’ve got to make good yourself to get behind the cold reserve. No pushing from anyone outside will help you with this kind of people. It’s up to you to work it yourself. One thing, however, I will say — once they really take to you and admit you as one of themselves — they’re the nicest people in the world to get on with. They trust you in everything. Now, do you understand?”

“Perfectly,” I said, “it’s very nice of you to be so frank about it.”

“Of course, however,” he went on smiling, “if Miss Mary should happen to take a fancy to that nice brown face of yours — well anything might happen, for she’s one of those girls who’ve got a lot of character behind her pretty clinging ways.”

“You know the family fairly well then, Chief?”

“Yes, I do. You see, Sir Henry and I went campaigning together. I am quite a friend of theirs, and that is why I can tell you everything so plainly. And now look here, John. I shall keep a fatherly eye on you and your romance, and if ever I see a chance where I can chip in and help you — you can depend on me.”

I left the Chief, at first feeling rather disspirited and down at the mouth, but I soon began to reason myself into a better frame of mind.

After all, I thought, I was in an infinitely better position than I was a year ago. Then, I seemed to have no chance whatever, but now, at all events as far as worldly goods were concerned, I could at least meet Sir Henry on equal terms.

I quite realised as the Chief had insisted in rubbing home, that everything now depended upon my own efforts. Well, I thought again, in getting to know Mary and her family I would leave nothing to chance. I would make the chance myself.

Directly they returned to Adelaide I determined I would lay energetic siege to the castle that held my lady love.

In the meantime I busied myself with Rataplan. I had bought a good stretch of land adjoining a farm of mine near Roseworthy and under the care of one of the station overseers, who in his time had worked in a large racing stable near Melbourne, had put Rataplan into strict training.

It was not that he was requiring much training. He was naturally a born leaper, and the work I had given him at Velvet Hills had brought him to the pink of condition.

He had always given us little trouble, but in one way I was very anxious about him.

I knew he was a very good animal, and I myself had never been astride of anything within two stone of him, but still I had never yet had the opportunity of trying him with any known good class public performer.

We had clocked him many times. He was always handicapped by a terribly slow beginning, but he had done two and a quarter miles, with me on his back, in under four minutes and a quarter and with a flying start I had known him to cover seven furlongs in one twenty-five.

So I knew he must be pretty smart, but before racing him in public, I determined to get a line to see how he compared with the general run of South Australian horses.

I set my fancy on a rather smart performer, Lad of Mine, an aged hurdler, about ten years old, that had been doing very well lately, and was generally about the eleven stone mark.

His running was a little bit of the in and out variety, but with a good jockey up, he was always to be reckoned with, even in the best of company.

I approached the owner and suggested a deal. After a little bargaining we came to terms.

Then, I sought out the jockey who usually rode him and made it worth his while to come up to Roseworthy for a trial.

Keys was the jockey’s name, and I took him over the course I had arranged, and gave him every opportunity of observing its peculiarities.

He could weigh in comfortably at nine stone, but I went to scale at eleven stone six.

I didn’t let him know what weight he was carrying, but I put him up on Lad of Mine with twenty-one pounds of lead under his saddle — myself, I mounted Rataplan as I was.

The trial was to be two miles and a quarter, over eight flights of hurdles, and my man sent us off to a good start.

As usual, Rataplan was dreadfully slow in getting off, and Lad of Mine’s jockey looked back and grinned sympathetically when he was fully twenty yards ahead. But he didn’t grin long.

I tried to ride Rataplan exactly as if we were riding in a public race. I didn’t hurry or bustle him in any way at first, but just let him find, in his own time, that wonderful devouring stride of his.

He was soon gaining on Lad of Mine but Keys, good jockey that he was, made no effort to push his mount.

He was reckoning, I guessed, to profit later by the exertion of the extra work Rataplan was now putting in.

But he was reckoning I knew, without his host. At a mile Rataplan had drawn level, and for another mile the two animals raced even, side by side.

Lad of Mine was a good jumper, and it would have rejoiced any experienced racing crowd to mark the perfect way both beasts took their hurdles together.

Just when we had passed the two-mile post, I thought it about time to see what Rataplan could do. There was one more hurdle to jump, and I put him to it at a suddenly increased pace.

Lad of Mine came over faultlessly a length behind us and then, with about three hundred yards to go, I touched Rataplan slightly with the whip and let him out.

It filled me with delight to feel him instantly draw away. Lad of Mine made a game effort to come after him, but he might have been fetlock deep in mud, for all the effect it had, and Rataplan passed the winning post fully ten lengths ahead.

“What were we giving you?” called out Keys when he came up.

“I was giving you thirteen pounds,” I replied smiling.

“My word, but he’s a corker then. He went that last furlong like he was in a sprint. Why don’t you put him on the flat, sir?”

“Because for one thing, he’s a terribly slow beginner, and for another I don’t think he’ll be handy enough at the turns. He loses badly at the corners.”

We gave both horses a good rest, and then changed mounts. I promised Keys a box of cigars if he caught me before we reached the first mile post.

I slipped Lad of Mine away sharply, and was quickly ma............