The Black Stallion Challenged by Walter Farley Read Free Book Online Page B

much too large for him, but at least it provided some warmth. “I went back to bed,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to take him out in this.”
    Alec nodded. He could have said that mud and cold had never been a problem to the Black, but he didn’t. He, too, was tired of getting mud in his face, and that was what would have happened on the track this morning, even at a slow gallop.
    “This is enough to drive a guy back up north,” Henry complained.
    The blustery wind whipped through the area with tornado-like force and overhead a long streak of lightning shattered the heavens.
    “It can’t make up its mind whether to snow or become a tropical storm,” Alec said. “Either way it’s going to cut the attendance figures this afternoon.”
    “We’ll be in the stands,” Henry said. “You and I got work to do.”
    “I figured that,” Alec replied glumly. “Or you would have stayed in bed.”
    There were other places he’d rather be than in Hialeah’s stands that afternoon. But as Henry had said many times last night,
he
was the boss. You did what
he
said or
he
gave you a boot. These were old, old times, all over again.
    By post time for the first race Alec was sitting in the stands with Henry, shivering and uncomfortable along with some five thousand other die-hard fans. The spindly-legged flamingos in centerfield looked naked and very cold. If their wings had not been pinioned toprevent long-distance flying, Alec was certain the whole flock of 400 birds would have taken off for their island homes to the south.
    Rain continued to fall steadily and the long brown stretch past the half-filled stands was deep in slop. The track management was doing its best to brighten up the day. The band, well protected beneath the roof of the grandstand, was giving forth with loud groans and oompahs from its instruments for an afternoon of music. Its maestro must have been flogging the musicians to get them to play “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning” on such a day.
    The gondolier, poling his authentic Venetian gondola on the infield lake, was active too, despite the weather. He maneuvered his boat around the edges of the lagoon, apparently trying to arouse the half-frozen flamingos. Few if any fans watched him or cared what went on in centerfield. It was no day for a show or carnival. There were no tourists who needed to be entertained by birds, boats, or a band. Those in the stands had come only to watch the best horseflesh of the year.
    “It’s surprising there are so many here on a day like this,” Alec commented.
    Henry nodded in agreement and mumbled that perhaps most of them were owners, for in this jet age it was possible for a man to leave New York or Chicago in the morning and get to Hialeah in time to watch his horse race. He could even return home in time for dinner. While he was speaking, Henry’s teeth were chattering with cold.
    An assistant starter walked across the track, liftinghis rubber-booted legs heavily out of the mud with each stride.
    Alec said, “It won’t be long before they’ll be using a synthetic strip over a track like this. Remember the one they had under the starting gate at Saratoga last year? The only trouble was that it didn’t go all the way around to the finish.”
    “It’s too expensive,” Henry muttered.
    “But so are good horses,” Alec answered. “And many are badly hurt on a track like this.”
    “To say nothing of their riders,” Henry added, looking at Alec.
    “Sure,” the youth agreed. “I don’t see any reason why a synthetic track would be too expensive when you consider the benefits. The resin strip is only an inch thick and could be laid in sections. When it was not in use it could be rolled and put in centerfield.”
    Henry nodded thoughtfully. “Sure, we might see it one of these days. It might not be any more expensive than some of the carnival acts they put on in centerfield.” He paused to listen to the imperative bugle call of “Boots and Saddles” as it