36 RACEHORSES IN AUSTRALIA 



And — last scene of all which closed this strange, eventful history — in the 

 A. j.C. Plate, on the fourth day, at three miles, and with the bookmakers asking 

 ten to one, the great horse cantered home from Correze and Greygown. The 

 curtain had fallen. The racecourse saw the familiar figure no more. 



Which champion, then, shall be dubbed "The Champion of Champions?" 

 Men, and good judges, who have seen The Barb, tell us that, as a horse, he 

 was magnificent. Lengthy, but beautifully ribbed up, immense loins, great 

 powerful, muscular quarters, perfect shoulders, the best of legs, and altogether 

 a noble-looking animal. Carbine was scarcely that. He possessed grand 

 staying points, of course. "A loin and a back that would carry a house, and 

 quarters to lift you slap over the town." His barrel was all that it ought to be, 

 deep, but not cumbersome. His shoulders were excellent, his rein long. 

 But, in proportion to the rest of his frame, he was light in the gaskin, not great 

 in the forearm, small — 7| inches — and inclined to be round and long in his 

 canon bones. Neither a "pretty" nor a perfect animal. Both horses 

 possessed the temperament that heroes are made of. Courage, coolness, 

 sagacity were theirs. Carbine ran his own race. He seized his own 

 opportunities, and took an opening on his own initiative, when he saw it, 

 through which he might thread his way in a big field. And he recognised the 

 winning post as well as he knew his manger. He was determined to win, and 

 he was perfectly well aware when a supreme effort was necessary. One might 

 almost say, too, that he had the saving gift of humour. As he emerged from 

 the enclosure in order to take his breather before a race, he almost invariably 

 indulged in a little pantomime of his own, partly for his own edification, and 

 partly for the amusement of his friends, the crowd. When he stepped on to 

 the course from the enclosure, he would "gammon" that he saw something 

 up the running which attracted his attention, and he would stand with his 

 ears at full cock, gazing as at an apparition. No effort on the part of his 

 jockey could induce him to walk forwards. Then Walter Hickenbotham 

 appeared from the wings, as it were, and endeavoured to "shoo" him on. 

 No result. Now Walter would flap his handkerchief at him, and the old fellow 

 might walk a few paces, and then take fresh stock of the imaginary object in 

 the distance. Another full stop. Then came the moment when Walter 

 resorted to his ace of trumps. This was an umbrella, kept evidently for the 

 purpose, which was opened and shut rapidly, as near as was consistent with 

 safety to the horse's heels. This usually produced the desired effect, and 

 Carbine would then proceed far enough up the running to enable his jockey 

 to invite him to turn round and sweep down the course in his preliminary. 

 It was a curious and somewhat entertaining performance, but what the horse 

 thought about it all it is difficult to say. But now, to sum up and deliver a 

 verdict on the question of the merits of Carbine and The Barb. It is possible 

 that The Barb was the better horse, and he was, most probably, the better 

 looking of the two. Yet I fancy I know full well what the verdict of posterity 

 will be. When a statue to Carbine has been erected in Olympia future 

 generations will read in large letters on its plinth, "C.O.M.," and archaeologists 

 of a later age will interpret this to mean: "Carbine, Optimus, Maximus" 

 ("Carbine, Best and Greatest"). 



