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Updated: May 5, 2025
When we were starting for the meeting, someone said we had better tie up Victor or he would be getting stolen at the races. We called and whistled, but he had made himself scarce, so we started and forgot all about him. Buckatowndown Races. Red-hot day, everything dusty, everybody drunk and blasphemous.
Every second man we met wanted to run us a mile for 100 pounds a side; and a drunken shearer, spoiling for a fight, said he had heard we were "brimming over with bally science", and had ridden forty miles to find out. We didn't wait for the hack race. We folded our tents like the Arab and stole away. But it remains on the annals of Buckatowndown how a kangaroo-dog ran second for the Town Plate.
All the betting at Buckatowndown was double-event you had to win the money first, and fight the man for it afterwards. The start for our race, the Town Plate, was delayed for a quarter of an hour because the starter flatly refused to leave a fight of which he was an interested spectator.
We were training two horses for the Buckatowndown races an old grey warrior called Tricolor better known to the station boys as The Trickler and a mare for the hack race. Station horses don't get trained quite like Carbine; some days we had no time to give them gallops at all, so they had to gallop twice as far the next day to make up.
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