"
"But where do they run?"
"Oh, the track goes in and out among the trees. There's some talk of
clearing it before the next meeting by means of a working bee. But
they won't worry if it doesn't get done--every one will come and have a
picnic just the same. You see, there are only two days in the year when
a bush place can really let itself go--Show day and Race day. Show
day is more serious and business-like, but Race day is a really
light-hearted affair, and the horses don't matter to most of the
people."
They turned into a gate where two men were busily collecting shillings
and keeping a wary eye lest foot passengers should dodge in through the
fence without paying. There were no buildings at all in the bush paddock
in which they found themselves. It lay before them, flat, save for
a rise towards the southern boundary, where already the crowd was
thickening, and sparsely timbered. As they cantered across it they came
to a rough track, marked out more or less effectively by pink calico
flags nailed to the trees.
"That's the racing track," Wally said. "Let's ride round it, and we'll
have a faint idea of what the horses are doing later on."
They turned along the track, where the grass had been worn by horses
training for the races during the few weeks preceding the great day. The
trees had been cleared from it, so that it was good going. In shape it
was roughly circular, with an occasional dint or bulge where a big red
gum had been too tough a proposition to clear, and the track had had to
swing aside to avoid it--a practice which must, as Jim remarked, make
interesting moments in riding a race, if the field were larger than
usual and the pace at all hot.
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