“Fat and sleek’s the way they like ’em, boy. But ours are in good condition. They’ll see that, too. An’ they can see the bone structure of every las’ one of them … that’s important, too.”
“That’s for sure,” Danny said. You could see their bones, all right.
“If they hadn’t been sick an’ we’d had more time, they’d be as sleek an’ fat as the others,” the old man said. “But with their breedin’ they’ll sell anyway.”
Danny was silent and the old man studied him carefully. “Don’t you go showin’ this colt to anyone in his stall, Danny. When they come around an’ want to look at him, you take him outside where he can be seen properly. A colt stands bad with his feet buried in straw an’ up one place an’ down another. Lead him out in the open where he can walk over a good, flat surface. An’ you stand at his left shoulder. Don’t you go walkin’ ’way ahead of him, pullin’ him along like. Hold the shank light but firm. Don’t let him stretch his neck or turn his head. He’ll look unbalanced if you do.”
“I’ll remember,” Danny said quietly. And he made a mental note to do all the things he shouldn’t so his colt wouldn’t be seen to his best advantage.
“You ought to rub more gloss into his coat, too,” the old man went on. “He don’t look very polished this morning.”
Danny nodded.
“Mos’ people buy a yearling on bloodlines, but how he’s made is important, too,” the old man went on. “They’ll study every part of him. That’s why it’s important you have him standin’ right.”
“He’s made right,” Danny said, turning to Man o’ War. “They’d be blind if they didn’t see it.”
It was funny, he thought. Here he had planned not to show Man o’ War to his best advantage so that perhaps he wouldn’t be sold. And yet it would hurt him very much if people didn’t see the beauty and fine qualities of his colt. He was a mixed-up kid.
“Red’s a fine yearling, all right,” the old man agreed. “Maybe the best of the lot from the way he ran in pasture.”
“But the buyers won’t know how fast he can go.”
“No, but they’ll see he’s bred right. An’ they’ll see how well he fits together. They’ll start with his head. It’s not too big or too small for the rest of him.”
“And his eyes are large and clear with a strong look of boldness,” Danny said. “That’s important.”
The old man nodded. “Spaced wide apart, that means he’s smart,” he said. “No bulges between ’em, either. Keen and bold, that’s Red.”
“And his neck is right … the right length, the right proportion,” Danny went on, proud of his colt.
“His shoulder is good, too. They’ll look for that next.”
Danny ran his hand over the angle of the shoulder blade. “It slopes the way it should, from point of shoulder to middle of withers. That’s why he has that long, swinging stride in pasture.”
“Maybe so, Danny. An’ see how deep he is through the chest. Plenty of room for lungs as well as heart.”
Danny put his arms around his colt. “There’s nothing small about him. His heart is as big as the rest of him. He’s going to make a racehorse. I’m sure of it.”
The old man shook his shaggy gray head. “Nothin’s sure in this business, Danny-boy,” he said. “Some of the best runnin’ horses I’ve seen looked like nags. That’s why a lot of folks here will be buyin’ colts on bloodlines only. They won’t care what a colt looks like jus’ as long as he comes from a good family on each side.”
Danny shrugged his shoulders. “I guess they got to start somewhere,” he said.
The old man glanced at his big gold watch. “It’s near eight o’clock and jus’ about time for them to look us over. Mind your business now, Danny. An’ remember what I said. Don’t you go showin’ this colt in the stall to anyone. You take him out an’ stand him right. That way you be as proud as he is.”
The last racehorse had taken his morning exercise on the tobacco-brown racing strip at Saratoga, and the last breakfast had been served on the clubhouse veranda. It was the time between morning works and the first race on the afternoon program. It was the time for people to inspect the sales yearlings and make important decisions.
Danny had Man o’ War ready for inspection. Oh, he didn’t have his colt as groomed and polished as he could have done. But he had put the catalog hip number on Man o’ War so people would know what yearling they were looking at. That was enough. He was going to display his colt just so he would be appreciated, not sold. There was a big difference between the two, he told himself.
Danny looked out of the stall and saw that the tree-shaded benches were already crowded with people who were paying little attention to one another. Their eyes were solely for the yearlings and the sales catalogs they held in their laps. Before long some of them would ask to see Man o’ War; only then would he take the big colt from his stall.
Meanwhile, he studied these would-be purchasers of Man o’ War, perhaps as closely as they examined the yearlings parading before them. He saw one old lady sitting by herself and reading her catalog intently through large horn-rimmed glasses. Her lips moved silently, and every now and then she looked up to study the yearlings passing before her. She would then turn back to her catalog and make a pencil mark on the page. Nearby others were doing the same thing, while still others ignored the benches and walked beneath the green shade trees examining yearlings at their leisure.
The crowd swelled with every passing moment, getting a little noisier but not pushier. Everything was being done in an easy manner. There was no hurry. This was Saratoga.
Danny, too, found himself caught in the slow, leisurely pace. He was reminded of the war going on by the number of uniforms in evidence, but some men were still dressed in dinner clothes from the night before and others, men and women alike, wore tweeds and silks. He knew that all these people were trying to forget, if only for a little while, the fighting being waged overseas. So, perhaps more than ever before, they were absorbed in the fascinating business of looking at young horses and trying to decide on their potential as racehorses. They were slow about it because they did not want this time to slip by too fast. For a few hours all could escape into the past and a world at peace. Here was quiet, good living, and easygoing charm. And there was no better way to start the day off than by looking at yearlings, with an afternoon of racing still to come.
Danny understood. And he watched many of the consignors of yearlings, too, go along with the carefree life instilled by Saratoga’s natural charm. The sellers were doing everything possible to attract attention to their yearlings, some having large barbecues alongside their barns with grooms in white aprons cooking lamb and all the trimmings over small log fires.
Danny noted that the meat was disappearing faster than it took to cook it. There was no doubt that the barbecues were a success, but whether or not they would sell yearlings was something else again.
He turned back to Man o’ War. “They’re going after buyers every way they can, Red,” he said. “Everybody but us. We’re sitting tight. Let them come to us.”
Again he looked outside the stall. There was a crowd milling nearby and it was only a matter of moments before they would ask to see Man o’ War. He studied these prospective buyers of his colt closely as they walked quietly around the yearlings in the adjacent stable.
Some of the men were squatting while inspecting the colts. Why? Danny wondered. Their reasons must be known only to themselves, for there was nothing they couldn’t see from an upright position. The women in the crowd remained stately, erect, but their eyes were as knowing as the men’s. Danny knew from what he had heard that this year the women were giving the men a lively tussle in the buying and selling of colts. Since he worked for Mrs. Kane, this had come as no great surprise to Danny. He had a lot of respect for women who understood horses. But at the same time he couldn’t see Man o’ War as anything but a man’s horse.
It was a quiet crowd considering the larg
e number of people, Danny decided. They exchanged greetings with one another but their eyes did not leave the yearlings for very long. It was all business, as if every single one of them was looking for the colt that would turn out to be the finest of the sale.
Not that the best horse would be bought for the highest dollar, Danny knew. Not by any means. Everybody realized that many a colt sold for some sensational price like fifty thousand dollars very often never reached the racetrack. No, the most successful colts sold in the middle range, around five to twenty thousand dollars.
People waited patiently for others ahead of them to finish examining a colt and then go on to the next one. They were all very polite, Danny noted, and very thorough, too. They seemed to have a set pattern of inspection and it seldom seemed to vary.
Those who were not afraid of horses—and this included the women—stooped to pass their hands slowly and carefully over the knees of each horse. Then they went to the off side of the colt, stopped abruptly, and went back to check the forelegs again before returning to where they had left off. Usually they shook their heads on the chance of scaring off anyone else who might be interested in a colt they liked. Finally they stood behind the horse to view his hindquarters. They would then ask the groom to move the colt and very often would grunt as he went forward. They would grunt again when the colt was stopped in the same position as before. Their inspection would end by their writing a short note in the margin of the catalog opposite the colt’s pedigree. Then they would pass on to the next horse, their faces devoid of expression and without uttering a word of comment, to begin all over again.
Danny waited for them to come to him. He could be as patient as anyone else. Besides, he was almost certain no one would see the true greatness of his colt. Trainers and owners might protest about fat yearlings, but they were not very apt to buy skinny ones. And Red was certainly skinny compared to the others. They’d be suspicious of such a thin yearling, suspecting him of being a poor eater, which no one wanted in his racing stable … or of being sickly … or neglected … or poorly raised and managed. There were lots of reasons they might not like Man o’ War.
His pedigree, too, could give cause for some concern, Danny decided hopefully. Heredity was an all-important factor at the sales, and if Man o’ War had inherited his sire’s and grandsire’s temperament he would be almost useless on the racetrack. He must have not only their speed but a willingness to use it, and Fair Play and Hastings had never possessed that necessary attribute.
Danny smiled to himself. He felt that he alone knew that Man o’ War did have the competitive drive his sire and grandsire lacked. He had spent enough hours with Red in pasture to know. But the buyers wouldn’t know. They had only bloodlines and conformation on which to judge Man o’ War.
“Lead him out of the stall, please,” someone said.
The first of the prospective buyers had reached them. Now it had begun and would continue until Man o’ War entered the sales ring on Saturday night. “Let’s go, fellow,” he said quietly. Man o’ War followed him. There was nothing impatient or unruly about him, Danny noted. He would take all this in his easy stride.
Danny led Man o’ War out into the open where the people could get a good look at him. He brought him to a stop on hard, level ground where he could stand well balanced. He stood away from him, holding the shank lightly but firmly. He showed Man o’ War to his best advantage because he was proud of his horse, not because he wanted him to be sold. He could have done it no other way despite the fact that he had not rubbed any gloss in the red, sunburned coat.
The inspection of Man o’ War began, and during the hours that followed, Danny listened to the comments of some of the buyers, usually muttered to themselves or to a close companion. More often than not they were unfavorable. Not that such criticism was their true opinion of Man o’ War, Danny knew, for they’d do anything to discourage others from bidding on a colt they liked.
“He’s long in the middle, too long for the way I like them,” one said.
“But he just might stay in spite of it,” a companion mumbled in reply. “His quarters are good and muscular, right down through the thigh and gaskin. Some say the propelling power comes from there. I wouldn’t know.”
And later someone else said, “His cannons are too short. I like them long.”
“But long cannons don’t necessarily mean a long stride,” another answered.
“Maybe not, but I’ll still take them long.”
“He has straight hind legs with height over the quarters same as at the withers. Might mean an extra long-striding horse in spite of what you say.”
The other snorted. “I don’t like them straight up front. I prefer them a little bent over at the knees. That way the horse is more likely to stay sound.”
Danny listened, thinking, You can’t please them all. No horse can.
“His pasterns aren’t the right angle either. They won’t support his weight the way they should.”
Some people picked up the big colt’s foot, and Danny watched them examine it closely. Man o’ War had good feet and he knew how important it was, especially the frog. It was this spongelike rubber cushion that absorbed the first terrific shock of a thousand-pound horse galloping over a hard surface at high speed. To Danny the more frog, the more cushion. It was as simple as that.
But one man shook his head vigorously and said, “His feet are too narrow. They’ll tend to go sore, spreading at the quarters. Might even result in a broken bone.”
Danny had a hard time keeping still. Man o’ War’s feet weren’t narrow at all!
“Watch out,” he said as the man put down the colt’s hind leg. “You’re going to get kicked.” He was glad when they went on to the next horse.
For a long while those who examined Man o’ War kept their opinion of the colt to themselves. Then an old woman, who looked more like someone’s grandmother than a buyer of yearlings, whispered to her male companion. “He has wide hips, which appeals to me. They’re like a strong man with wide shoulders. They give a horse more power.”
She glanced up to find Danny listening to her. “Move him, son,” she said quietly. “On the dirt, not the grass.”
Danny walked Man o’ War down the row and back. He found the old lady examining the colt’s hoofprints in the soft dirt.
“He overstrides a little,” she whispered. “His hind feet extend beyond his front feet. I like to see a colt that reaches out with a good stride in his hind legs. And he has a swinging walk. He might be the one, Fred.”
“I wouldn’t know,” the man said. “You’re the expert.”
Danny noted that when the old lady had finished her inspection of Man o’ War, she was shaking her head in disapproval, just as almost everybody else had done. He wondered if she thought she was fooling anyone.
It went on like that for the rest of the morning.
“His neck is a little too short for me. He’ll tire when he tries to go a distance,” one man said.
“The neck doesn’t affect a horse’s running ability,” another disagreed. “No more than a Roman nose does or even a sway-back. And I don’t like to see them any more than you do. Now the throat and jaw are something else again. There’s got to be ample room for the windpipe or a horse chokes up while racing. The same goes for his nostrils. They must be large enough so he can inhale and exhale easily while running.”
The other shrugged his shoulders. “You’re not going to find the perfect horse anywhere, and some of the almost perfect ones can’t run much.”
“That’s right. You have to give and take a little here and there.”
They moved on to the next colt.
It was near noontime, and the sales area was thinning out, when a trainer Danny had seen at Nursery Stud came to inspect the stable’s yearlings. It was Louis Feustel, and with him were a big elderly man and a woman. They approached Man o’ War, Feustel nodding as he recognized Danny but giving all his attention to the colt.
The young traine
r glanced around as if to make sure no one was within hearing distance and then said, “This is a good colt, Mr. Riddle.”
The big man towering above him shrugged his shoulders. “I rather like the looks of him, too, Louis. He’s big-boned, big-framed, everything necessary to make a good hunter, which I know something about. But a racehorse?”
Feustel nodded. “I think so, sir.”
“But he’s so tall and gangling, Louis,” the lady said. “A little on the ungainly side.”
“His condition isn’t as fine as some of the others in the Belmont consignment,” Feustel admitted. “But he’s in much better shape than when I saw him at the farm.”
“You rejected him then,” Mr. Riddle recalled.
“Not actually,” the trainer said. “It’s true I liked some of the others better, and I certainly didn’t recommend buying the whole lot, as I told you. But I’d still like to see you buy a Fair Play colt, and this one may be a good one.”
“He’s bred right,” Mr. Riddle said. “No doubt about that. I suppose we could use him for a hunter if he didn’t work out on the racecourse. As I said, he has the bone and frame for it.”
“He’s so thin I almost feel sorry for him,” Mrs. Riddle said, fondly touching the big colt.
Louis Feustel smiled. “He’s not hog-fat like most of these other yearlings, ma’am,” he said. “But he’s in sound physical shape and in medium flesh, the way I like them.”
Mrs. Riddle nodded and turned to her husband. “I would go by Louis’s decision,” she said. “If he recommends that you buy him, do it. If he doesn’t, don’t. It’s as simple as that, since he’s the one who will be doing the training.”
Mr. Riddle didn’t take his eyes off Man o’ War. “I still don’t want to go too high just for a hunter prospect. What do you think he’ll sell for, Louis?”
The trainer shrugged his thin shoulders. “It’s hard to say, Mr. Riddle. No amount of experience makes anything certain in judging what a yearling will amount to or what he’ll bring in the sales ring. But my guess is that this one won’t go too high. He’s pretty thin for most buyers, as Mrs. Riddle has pointed out, and he’s got a full sister named Masda who’s a fast racer but hard to handle. It’s the Hastings coming out. That might scare off the buyers.”