The following is adapted from an 1890 poem called Our New Horse, by A. B. Patterson. Apologies to the great gent. The boys had well and truly had a gutful. Another bootless day at the bloody races. Both of their horses had been well backed and both had fallen short. They sat around the camp fire that night and bemoaned what seemed for them, their never ending run of stinkin' luck. For some time now, both horses had been a constant drain on their pockets. The upkeep of the animals wasn't so much a problem, as station life meant that the horses were cared for at next to no cost. It was the punt that was killing them. But it wasn't always so. There were times when all the world was their oyster. They'd once strode across the Western, racing landscape with boots make for kicking. Bookmakers far and wide had felt the full weight of their onslaught. Their bay mare had been an honest conveyance and had stood them in good stead for a number of years, but she'd now grown a bit long in the tooth and her form for all intents and purposes, had become little more than the fruits of an anus. The mare wasn't the problem though, for she could be turned out and bred from, their dilemma centered around their very handy gelding upon who's deeds, over the years, they had feasted rather large. Partner had cut a swathe throught the back blocks of country racing and had in the process, drawn the wrath of the handicapper. It's said that weight stops trains...it stopped Partner. He could still get along with a wing on every foot, but the proverbial weight of the grandstand had rendered him next to useless as a racehorse. The discussions wore on into the night about his future. They couldn't sell him...who in there right mind is going to cough up cold, hard cash for an animal that was stuffed? They even thought about painting him and altering his brand, but the horse was too well known. He'd be spotted in no time flat. They figured the only option left open to them, was to stiff some poor unsuspecting soul. With this in mind, the boys posted an ad in a distant paper. "Racehorse for sale. A flier. Still unraced. The buyer can get him in light and win all the handicap races." It wasn't long before contact was made. And after a dazzling trial at a deserted, out of the way track, Partner changed hands for 130 quid. The new owner went on his merry way and cockies beat a hasty retreat into the protection of the wilderness, hoping never to be seen again. Racing for them was now a thing of the past and gave way to a station life of mundane activity. The horrors of Winter passed by and the world at large began to blossom. The paddocks turned green and cattle grew fat and lazy, the flats became infested with huge mobs of roos and wallabies, and birds filled the air with raucous cries that seemed never ending. And in the breasts of man, all manner of hopes and desires spring forth. And not the least among these, as far as our lads were concerned, was racing. As the weeks grew, so did their hunger. So a letter was fired off to Skinner in Sydney. And the order for a horse was set in place. In time a letter arrived. The news was as wished. Skinner had brought an unraced horse. He'd been matched against Drummer and had given him a flogging. Not much was known about his breeding but he looked a likely type and was now in training. Asking price...180 pounds. The deal was done and the likely type was hauled down to the central city rail yards and loaded for transportation. Fully charged with expectation, the lads and a good number of fellow station hands, rode off into town. Planning to make a day of it, they hit the pub for a few hours and then, three sheets to the wind, wandered off down to the local rail spur to await the arrival of their latest wonder horse. As the the engine hove into view, the dust laden air grew thick with drunken reverie. By the time the metal monster had shuddered to a halt at the siding, the smiles and back slapping had reached an almost fever pitch. To a man, they hot footed it down to the stock carrages at the end of the line. Within minutes, a side was dropped, and there before them stood their 180 quid purchase. A dashing specimen if ever there was one. But it just wasn't enough. The euphoric nature of the event quickly took on a more sombre tone. No more the jovial moods. Faces turned to stone and many a heart felt profanity split the air, for now standing in full view in front of them was their old champ Partner. What goes around, comes around. They'd playing the cheating card and been fallen short. They were back to square one, stuck with the horse that was next to useless. And on top of that, they were now 50 pounds down. Life on the station has again fallen rather flat and the sport of racing is rarely mentioned anymore.
