Three Elephant Power | Page 6

be, and Henery reckoned he'd go another four miles before he'd ketch it, so he chances them turns more than ever. And she was pretty hot, too; but he kept her at it, and he hadn't gone a full mile till he come round a turn about forty miles an hour, and before he could stop he run right into it, and wot do you think it was?"
I hadn't the faintest idea.
"A circus. One of them travellin' circuses, goin' down the coast; and one of the elephants had sore feet, so they put him in a big waggon, and another elephant pulled in front and one pushed behind. Three elephant-power it was, right enough. That was the waggon wot made the big track. Well, it was all done so sudden. Before Henery could stop, he runs the radiator -- very near boiling she was -- up against the elephant's tail, and prints the pattern of the latest honeycomb radiator on the elephant as clear as if you done it with a stencil.
"The elephant, he lets a roar out of him like one of them bulls bellerin', and he puts out his nose and ketches Henery round the neck, and yanks him out of the car, and chucks him right clean over the cliff, 'bout a thousand feet. But he never done nothin' to the old bloke."
"Good gracious!"
"Well, it finished Henery, killed him stone dead, of course, and the old man he was terrible cut up over losin' such a steady, trustworthy man. `Never get another like him,' he says."
We were nearly at our journey's end, and we turned through a gate into the home paddocks. Some young stock, both horses and cattle, came frisking and cantering after the car, and the rough bush track took all Alfred's attention. We crossed a creek, the water swishing from the wheels, and began the long pull up to the homestead. Over the clamour of the little-used second speed, Alfred concluded his narrative.
"The old bloke advertised," he said, "for another driver, a steady, reliable man to drive a twenty horse-power, four-cylinder touring car. Every driver in Sydney put in for it. Nothing like a fast car to fetch 'em, you know. And Scotty got it. Him wot used to drive the Napier I was tellin' you about."
"And what did the old man say when he found he'd been running a racing car?"
"He don't know now. Scotty never told 'im. Why should he? He's drivin' about the country now, the boss of the roads, but he won't chance her near a circus. Thinks he might bump the same elephant. And that elephant, every time he smells a car passin' in the road, he goes near mad with fright. If he ever sees that car again, do you think he'd know it?"
Not being used to elephants, I could not offer an opinion.

The Oracle

No tram ever goes to Randwick races without him; he is always fat, hairy, and assertive; he is generally one of a party, and takes the centre of the stage all the time -- collects and hands over the fares, adjusts the change, chaffs the conductor, crushes the thin, apologetic stranger next him into a pulp, and talks to the whole compartment as if they had asked for his opinion.
He knows all the trainers and owners, or takes care to give the impression that he does. He slowly and pompously hauls out his race book, and one of his satellites opens the ball by saying, in a deferential way:
"What do you like for the 'urdles, Charley?"
The Oracle looks at the book and breathes heavily; no one else ventures to speak.
"Well," he says, at last, "of course there's only one in it -- if he's wanted. But that's it -- will they spin him? I don't think they will. They's only a lot o' cuddies, any'ow."
No one likes to expose his own ignorance by asking which horse he refers to as the "only one in it"; and the Oracle goes on to deal out some more wisdom in a loud voice.
"Billy K---- told me" (he probably hardly knows Billy K---- by sight) "Billy K---- told me that that bay 'orse ran the best mile-an'-a-half ever done on Randwick yesterday; but I don't give him a chance, for all that; that's the worst of these trainers. They don't know when their horses are well -- half of 'em."
Then a voice comes from behind him. It is that of the thin man, who is crushed out of sight by the bulk of the Oracle.
"I think," says the thin man, "that that horse of Flannery's ought to run well in the Handicap."
The Oracle can't stand this sort of thing at all. He gives a snort, wheels half-round and looks at the speaker. Then he turns back to the