Again they reflected.
Joe triumphantly held up the mutilated form of a murdered mouse and invited the household to "Look!" No one heeded him.
"Would your Mother's go on you?"
"Might," and Dave spat into the fire.
"Anyway," Dad went on, "we must have a go at this handicap with the old mare; it's worth trying for, and, believe me, now! she'll surprise a few of their flash hacks, will Bess."
"Yairs. she can go all right." And Dave spat again into the fire.
"Go! I've never known anything to keep up with her. Why, bless my soul, seventeen years ago, when old Redwood owned her, there wasn't a horse in the district could come within coo-ee of her. All she wants is a few feeds of corn and a gallop or two, and mark my words she'll show some of them the way."
Some horse-races were being promoted by the shanty keeper at the Overhaul—seven miles from our selection. They were the first of the kind held in the district, and the stake for the principal event was £5. It was n't because Dad was a racing man or subject to turf hallucinations in any way that he thought of preparing Bess for the meeting. We sadly needed those five pounds, and, as Dad put it, if the mare could only win, it would be an easier and much quicker way of making a bit of money than waiting for a crop to grow.
