The story of the running is in the Pioneer. At the end of the first mile,
Shackles crept out of the ruck, well on the outside, ready to get round the
turn, lay hold of the bit and spin up the straight before the others knew he
had got away. Brunt was sitting still, perfectly happy, listening to the
"drum, drum, drum" of the hoofs behind, and knowing that, in about twenty
strides, Shackles would draw one deep breath and go up the last half-mile like
the "Flying Dutchman." As Shackles went short to take the turn and came
abreast of the brick-mound, Brunt heard, above the noise of the wind in his
ears, a whining, wailing voice on the offside, saying:--"God ha' mercy, I'm
done for!" In one stride, Brunt saw the whole seething smash of the
Maribyrnong Plate before him, started in his saddle and gave a yell of terror.
The start brought the heels into Shackles' side, and the scream hurt Shackles'
feelings. He couldn't stop dead; but he put out his feet and slid along for
fifty yards, and then, very gravely and judicially, bucked off Brunt--a
shaking, terror-stricken lump, while Regula Baddun made a neck-and-neck race
with Bobolink up the straight, and won by a short head--Petard a bad third.
Shackles' owner, in the Stand, tried to think that his field-glasses had gone
wrong.
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