As the minutes ticked away he saw Man o’ War rear and plunge forward repeatedly. Then John P. Grier began acting up, too. Finally the moment came when both colts seemed to be still behind the barrier. Man o’ War was number 1, on the rail, and Danny kept his eyes glued to the massive body, which hid John P. Grier from view.
His colt lurched forward and for a second Danny thought he had broken through the barrier. But no, the tape was up and the race was on! Danny saw his colt surge down the chute, running alone, and he shouted at the top of his lungs, “Run, Red!”
His eyes swept back for a fleeting second, seeking John P. Grier. But the small colt wasn’t to be seen. He was nowhere, nowhere at all! And then Danny had a sinking feeling. Grier must still be on the other side of Man o’ War, his small body hidden by the champion’s great bulk!
Out of the chute onto the main track, Man o’ War thundered. But now Danny and all those who watched could see John P. Grier matching strides with Man o’ War. They were locked together, moving as one down the long backstretch! This was no romp for Man o’ War. This was a race! Here his courage as well as his speed would be tested!
They remained locked together, moving as a team down the long backstretch. Man o’ War began inching ahead as they approached the turn, but he could not shake off John P. Grier! The excitement became more intense. At long last a horse was pushing the big red champion. How fast would Man o’ War have to go to win and, even more important, would he have the courage to face the challenge of the fighting colt at his side?
The two colts flashed by the half-mile pole, and a clocker standing beside Danny glanced at his stopwatch and said, “Forty-six flat, a track record!” At five furlongs, he said, “Fifty-seven two, a track record.” At the three-quarters, “One oh nine three, a track record.”
Danny listened. The colts were traveling faster than the speediest sprinters had ever raced … and there were still three furlongs to go! He thought, too, how many more strides the small colt must be taking to stay beside Man o’ War. And yet John P. Grier came on!
Around the sharp turn and into the homestretch they came together, and as Danny had foreseen, Man o’ War lost ground in making the turn. No longer was his colt a nose in front of John P. Grier. The small challenger, fighting Man o’ War as no horse had ever done before, came on head to head with the champion!
Danny couldn’t join in the tremendous roar that rose from the stands. He did not hear the clocker beside him say, “Mile in one thirty-six flat, a track record.” His throat was constricted; his jaws seemed to be glued together. His eyes never left the bobbing heads coming toward him. John P. Grier had to crack under the terrific pace. He couldn’t last. He couldn’t keep pushing Man o’ War. Or could he?
John P. Grier kept coming on doggedly, never missing a beat of the smooth strides that had kept him alongside Man o’ War throughout the race. And Danny knew, as everyone else did, that never before had Man o’ War been brought to such a grueling, punishing drive to the wire—and perhaps he never would be again!
“Come on, Red, come on!” Danny managed to shout at last.
But it was John P. Grier who moved, his jockey asking for everything he had. The small colt responded, pushing his black muzzle in front of Man o’ War, and for the first time forging to the lead!
“Grier wins!” the cry went up from the stands. “Grier wins!”
Danny jumped up against the man in front of him in an effort to see the finish. He unclenched his fists and grabbed the rail. His voice joined the great roar of the crowd. This was racing! Man o’ War had met a colt worthy of his best!
Danny saw Kummer swing his whip. Never before had Man o’ War been touched with it. What would happen? The whip came down hard against the colt’s haunches.
In an electrifying second Man o’ War became a thunderbolt! He moved with the swiftness of living flame, catching John P. Grier with one magnificent stride. Then he swept on, running as no horse had ever run before, thundering to racing glory and leaving behind him a gallant but beaten colt!
The greatest ovation in his life greeted Man o’ War as he was turned and brought back to the winner’s circle. His courage had been brought to a supreme test and had not been found wanting. He was still the champion and his luster was brighter than ever. The crowd did not forget John P. Grier in its applause. The small colt had been ahead of Man o’ War, if only for a fleeting second. Next to the champion he was the best colt in America!
Danny listened to the wave upon wave of cheers that greeted his colt as Kummer rode him into the winner’s circle. He stood nearby, waiting for the moment to come when he could take Man o’ War back to the barn. The pandemonium reached even greater heights when the time of the race was posted for all to read. Man o’ War had broken still another American record, running the mile and an eighth in 1:49 ⅕!
Danny knew that his colt’s record-shattering performance was secondary to the race itself. Never would he, or perhaps anyone else, ever see another like it. The true test of greatness in any horse was to meet a driving challenge, furlong after furlong, as Man o’ War had done in defeating John P. Grier. His colt had fought back every step of the way. There was no question now of his gameness and courage. Man o’ War was truly great, and Danny knew that never again would there be exactly this moment for him and his horse.
He studied Man o’ War in the winner’s circle. There was no doubt that the big colt had been extended to his utmost; his body was dark with great splotches of sweat and in places flecked with foam. His head too was wet, but he managed to keep it high, looking over the crowd that pressed close to him. Tired as he was, he seemed to be enjoying every minute of it.
Danny became more impatient than ever to get Man o’ War back to the stable and sponged off. Never had his colt looked more tired to him. He would need a complete rest.
Finally the ceremonies ended and Louis Feustel called him to take Man o’ War away. He hurried forward. The Dwyer was officially over and would go down in the books as one of the most exciting races in all turf history.
Again, Saratoga
25
That night Danny tossed restlessly on his tack room cot. He could not sleep. Maybe it was the mutterings of the grooms outside. Or it might be the deep breathing of the two men in the cots alongside his own. He didn’t know what it might be … except that it wasn’t like him not to be able to drop off to sleep the moment his head struck the pillow.
The pitch-darkness of late night was familiar enough. The smells were those he loved, the odors of hay and leather, of horses and liniment. So what was it that was keeping him awake?
He closed his eyes, only to open them again quickly and stare into the darkness, searching for … what? The reasons for his restlessness? Finally he got up, switching on the small overhead light that wouldn’t bother the sleeping men. He leaned against the black tack trunks with the yellow trim and bold lettering, GLEN RIDDLE, and his eyes found everything in order. The pails, brooms, and rakes were all hanging where they should be, all freshly painted.
The muffled voices of other grooms had hushed completely; the stable area was deathly still. He bit his full lower lip while listening for any movement in the adjacent stall. But Man o’ War must be sleeping too, exhausted after the hard race against John P. Grier.
Still, Danny wanted to go to him … not to disturb him, but just to be alone with him for a few minutes. Maybe then he, too, would be able to go to sleep.
Danny left the tack room and quietly opened the stall door. He looked inside. The dim outside light penetrated the darkness and he could make out Man o’ War. The colt was down in the straw, his big body sprawled to its fullest extent, his eyes closed.
Danny moved closer, ankle-deep in the straw bedding. Reaching Man o’ War, he bent down, touching the colt’s velvet-soft neck without awakening him. Moments passed and then Man o’ War’s breathing was broken by a snore. The noise was quiet at first, but became louder with each successive breath. After a while the colt move
d his legs in his sleep and there was a whisk of his long tail.
Danny smiled to himself. His colt dreamed at night after almost every race, as if he were running it all over again.
The long legs moved a little faster as the snorting became louder. Man o’ War was in full flight now, perhaps with John P. Grier right alongside him.
“Beat him, Red,” Danny whispered. “Beat him.”
Still asleep, Man o’ War snorted; then suddenly the legs stopped moving and the snoring hushed. The stall was quiet again. The race was over. Man o’ War had won.
Danny got to his feet and went to the feed box. It was empty. His colt had cleaned it out, so nothing was wrong with him. And the hay had been eaten, too, all the good timothy with a little clover thrown in for dessert. Man o’ War was a terrific eater, and good feed was important in a hard racing campaign.
The colt snorted again, breaking the quiet of the night. Danny turned to him, only to find him still asleep. He started to leave the stall but stopped, not wanting to go, really. His face looked old for his years, and there were deep white creases in his tanned skin. What must it have been like to be Kummer today, riding Man o’ War in such a race? He could only guess. He would never know.
Danny left the stall, closing the door securely behind him. Jim Rowe would be back again with John P. Grier. The Dwyer had by no means discouraged Rowe, for his colt had given a very good account of himself, and, who knew, perhaps racing luck would be in their favor the next time. Danny stretched out in his cot and went to sleep listening to Man o’ War’s snores.
The next few days were easy ones for Man o’ War. He did nothing but loaf in his stall and go for long walks about the stable area. Everywhere Danny took him people followed … other grooms and trainers, owners and their guests, photographers and reporters.
Man o’ War’s favorite spot was beneath a towering shade tree. While the colt grazed, Danny listened to the comments of the men gathered around them.
“He’s the greatest horse we’ve ever had,” an aged newspaper columnist said. “He’s even greater than Hindoo, Salvator, Sysonby, and Colin!”
The trainers and owners were silent after the man’s hero-worshiping outburst. Danny knew that while they might agree with the columnist, their quiet homage was more revealing than the other’s lofty claims.
The shutters of the photographers’ cameras clicked and the old newsman went on, “Maybe you couldn’t say he was the greatest before the Dwyer. He had things pretty much his own way until that race. But when Grier stayed with him for over a full mile, even heading him in the stretch run, he had to prove his gameness. He just had to. And that he did, despite the fact that he was giving Grier eighteen pounds in the weights. Any other champion, if he was only a front runner, would have quit right then. So that’s why I’m telling my readers that Man o’ War is the greatest of all time.”
The columnist turned to the professional horsemen in the group, awaiting their reaction to his heated, enthusiastic comments. But the eyes of the trainers never left Man o’ War, and they remained silent.
“Everybody who saw the race feels the same way,” the old man added. “Everybody.”
Danny chewed thoughtfully on a blade of grass. If this man thought he was going to get the trainers to give any statements as to Man o’ War’s supremacy, he was mistaken. Their comments would best be noted in what horses they sent to the post against Man o’ War in forthcoming races. If they refused to race their colts against him, that would be their answer.
“Maybe you fellows don’t think he’s met horses of real class?” the newsman asked. “Well, let me tell you that I’ve been covering races for over twenty-five years and it’s Man o’ War’s supreme speed that has made the others seem weak. John P. Grier would have been a champion three-year-old any year but this one. Upset, On Watch, Wildair, Paul Jones, and Blazes are all top-class horses and stakes winners once they get away from Man o’ War. Make no mistake about that. It’s true as anything could be, and you all know it as well as I do!”
Finally one of the trainers turned to the columnist. “All right, John,” he said quietly, “you’ve made your point.”
The days went quickly by, one very much like the other, while Man o’ War rested and loafed. Mr. Riddle decided not to enter him in any further races in New York and toward the last of June shipped his stable to Saratoga. There the big colt began his workouts again, this time for the Miller Stakes on August 7, 1920.
For the first time Danny felt uneasy. Nothing had changed at the historic track. The course was as beautiful and spacious as ever, and the air as pine-scented. It was hotter than usual, or at least as he remembered it. He perspired a little more as did the horses after their works. And the flies were worse. The nights were cool but they didn’t make up for the uncomfortable days. He hoped all this wasn’t a bad omen.
Man o’ War was working well, so Danny wasn’t worried about his ability to run. There was a problem in that Clarence Kummer had taken a spill in a race at Belmont and had broken his collarbone. Now it was up to Mr. Riddle to decide on another jockey to ride Man o’ War at Saratoga. Danny felt it might be better not to race the colt at all until Kummer recovered. If Man o’ War didn’t like the man on his back, there was no telling what might happen. But Danny couldn’t say anything. He’d just have to wait until Mr. Riddle made up his mind. It wasn’t easy to wait, either. The heat didn’t help at all.
The Saratoga meeting opened August 1, and on that day Danny watched a race that almost equaled the Dwyer in excitement. It was the Saratoga Handicap in which the outstanding older horses met. He saw Sir Barton give four pounds to Exterminator and outrace him, setting a new track record for the mile and a quarter of 2:01 ⅘! As he listened to the clamor of the huge crowd, Danny knew the public would insist that a match race be held between Sir Barton and Man o’ War. The big three-year-old had yet to race a mile and a quarter, but coming up soon would be the Travers Stakes at that distance. Then the fans would have a comparison in time to make. Meanwhile, the clamor to race the two champions would continue, and only Mr. Riddle could make the decision to start Man o’ War in such a special event.
Back at the stables Danny heard Mr. Riddle tell reporters, “It’s far too early to consider such a match with Sir Barton. We have a hard campaign ahead of us as it is. When it’s completed I’ll decide whether to send Man o’ War against Sir Barton.
It was that day, too, that Mr. Riddle made a decision of more urgent concern to all. Turning to Louis Feustel, he said, “I’m going to let Earl Sande ride Man o’ War in the Miller Stakes.”
Feustel nodded but said nothing. It was good copy for the newspapers, for Earl Sande was a young, brilliant jockey. Even more newsworthy was the fact that Sande had just ridden Sir Barton to victory in the Saratoga Handicap. After the forthcoming race his opinion of the two champions would be particularly significant to readers. The Miller Stakes was just seven days off.
August 7 came and as Danny watched Man o’ War go postward he knew he had been right about one thing, anyway. The trainers who had remained silent concerning Man o’ War’s invincibility after the Dwyer Stakes had now spoken, not in words but in something stronger still. They kept their horses in the barns, only two of them willing even to try for second money. Donnacona, whom Man o’ War had beaten several times before, was one, and a newcomer named King Albert was the other. Man o’ War carried 131 pounds, giving twelve pounds to Donnacona and seventeen to King Albert. Danny, as well as the crowd, knew that Man o’ War would have the track to himself.
The boy’s eyes remained on Man o’ War as Earl Sande took him postward. The big colt was full of run after his long rest but well under control. Sande wasn’t having any trouble with him. Either Man o’ War liked Sande, Danny decided, or he was becoming a racing machine, responsive to the hands of any competent jockey.
The horses were at the post barely a minute when the barrier sprang up. Danny watched Man o’ War come out fast and in stride. Donnacona and Ki
ng Albert were already trailing and beaten. Sande had a strong pull on Man o’ War but the big colt continued to draw away from the others. Rounding the far turn, Sande took a still stouter hold on Man o’ War, and he came into the homestretch galloping easily and unextended. He crossed the finish line far ahead of Donnacona, with King Albert still farther to the rear and totally outclassed.
The applause of the crowd swelled as he came back, even though it had been more of an exhibition than a race. Danny’s eyes shifted to the time being posted on the board, and he along with the crowd stopped cheering. Even under the strongest kind of restraint Man o’ War had raced the mile and three-sixteenths only three-fifths of a second off the track record!
The crowd’s silent homage was shattered by a new burst of applause as Man o’ War was taken into the winner’s circle. There was scarcely a mark on him and he was breathing easily. It was then that the reporters asked Earl Sande for a comparison of Man o’ War and Sir Barton, since he had now ridden both horses.
The young jockey grinned. “I’m a lot more tired than he is,” he said. “It was like tryin’ to pull up a runaway locomotive. I’ve never had one like that under me before. He’s the best horse I’ve ever ridden.”
“Are you including older horses like Sir Barton?” the reporters persisted, anxiously.
Sande reached down to pat Man o’ War’s bulging neck. He was under contract to Commander Ross, owner of Sir Barton, and there would be other races astride the older champion. In addition, Sir Barton had set a new record for a mile and a quarter just a few days before.
As he hesitated, the reporters said, “Maybe Sir Barton isn’t as spectacular as Man o’ War, but do you think he’s faster?”
Sande dismounted without answering, and the newsmen could get nothing more out of him.
Danny stood quietly, waiting for the photographers to finish taking their pictures. “Watch out!” he yelled suddenly to one of them. “He kicks to the off side.”