Danny moved forward at the same time, for his colt was next in the ring. He felt as if the ground were breaking away from him and he was falling into a great, black abyss.
The auctioneer watched the boy and the yearling colt step into the ring. For a few seconds he looked more at the boy than at the colt. That was a very strange thing for him to do, he decided. But he thought the boy was sick; his eyes were glazed and he moved as if his legs were made of wood. He hardly seemed to know where he was or what he was doing. And yet the colt was under control, moving lightly beside him.
The auctioneer shrugged his shoulders, glanced at the hip number on the colt, then at his catalog. “Heah’s a good one, folks,” he said, “a real good one by Fair Play out of Mahubah by Rock Sand.”
He studied the colt for the first time, wondering why he seemed to be in such poor sales shape. It was not easy to sell a thin yearling, for bidders were far too suspicious of such a colt. But this one was proud and spirited despite his sales condition. He looked as if he thought he owned the world.
Man o’ War. That was a powerful name for a colt. He liked yearlings with good names. There was something nondescript about referring to a yearling solely by its hip number, which was the usual case. He just might have something here to work on. He just might.
The auctioneer decided not to open the bidding right away. Give the buyers a chance to look at this colt a little longer. He was becoming a bit more impressive as he strode around the ring. If the buyers studied him closely, they might see more than his roughness.
The auctioneer also studied the big colt, looking for the best angle on which to sell this yearling. It appeared to him that Man o’ War might well be a horseman’s horse. Although he was not as sleek and shining as those that had preceded him, he was beautiful to see to those who knew horseflesh. His stride was free, rangy, and imperative. His head was high and his proportions magnificent.
The colt came to a sudden stop in the center of the ring but did not pull the shank away from the boy’s hand. He was interested in the crowd and looked confident, too. His ears were set forward and his nostrils distended as if the better to sniff the scent of humans. In that moment he was a picture to behold, and it seemed to the auctioneer that every horseman in the crowd would want him. It was a good time to start the bidding.
“Listen heah, folks,” he began, “this could be the one. You all know there’s no finer breeder in the country than Major Belmont, and this heah colt represents his very best. This is Man o’ War, a son of the great Fair Play by Hastings and out of the fine mare Mahubah by Rock Sand. You all know you just can’t get better breeding than that.”
He paused a moment, his eyes going over the crowd. Perhaps he shouldn’t have opened that way, he decided quickly. Too many of the horsemen present knew that such a mating had already produced Masda, this colt’s full sister, and that she was a flighty one for all her blazing speed. It was the Hastings in her. She was too nervous and excitable to make a racehorse, and Belmont had gotten rid of her.
It might be best to concentrate on what the buyers could see in the ring. “Take a good look at this heah colt, folks,” he went on. “You won’t find a better-boned individual than this one, no sir. He’s strong. He’s rugged. He’ll take to training and hold his flesh under work. There’s no extra fat to take off this heah colt, folks. He’s ready to go! Now you all give me what he’s worth, heah? Who’ll open at five thousand dollars? I want five, five, give me five …”
The singsong chant swept through the area, but there was no response from the buyers. The auctioneer’s eyes as well as his voice sought bids from the professional horsemen in the crowd. One by one they shook their heads. Perhaps they were recalling only too well the Hastings blood in this colt. Or perhaps it was his thinness and roughness. The auctioneer did not know.
Finally he found a trainer who held up one finger. Having no choice, he took the bid. “I got one thousand dollars,” he said without enthusiasm. “Give me two, two, two. I want two. Give me two.”
Again he pleaded with the professional horsemen to raise the bid. But he found only a few who showed any particular interest in this colt. The bidding went up a hundred dollars at a time and stopped completely at two thousand dollars. Should he let him go at that price? he wondered. He must have been wrong. Man o’ War hadn’t proved to be a horseman’s horse after all.
He turned to those buyers in the crowd who still might be interested in the colt as a hunter. Sometimes people paid good prices for hunting prospects, and this might be such a case. Mr. Riddle was interested in the colt, and so was Mr. Gerry. He decided to concentrate on them, for he should get more than two thousand dollars for this big colt.
His searching gaze found Mr. Gerry, who raised five fingers.
“Yeah! I got two thousand five hundred. I want three thousand. Give me three.” He got a nod from Mr. Riddle. “I got three, three. Give me four. I want four thousand.” Back to Mr. Gerry and a nod. “Yeah! I got four thousand dollars. I want five. Give me five, five.…”
This was a little better, the auctioneer decided without stopping his chant. Whatever their reasons, these two gentlemen wanted the colt, and such rivalry was one way to get high bids for yearlings. The ladies in both parties were helping too, for they were talking to their husbands. God bless them again. If it hadn’t been for Mrs. Jeffords, he’d never have gotten fifteen thousand six hundred for that Sweeper colt.
“I got four, four, four. Give me five. I want five.” Come on, Mr. Riddle, he urged beneath his chant. Give a little. Listen to your wife. She has your ear. And listen to Louis Feustel, too. It looks to me like he thinks you should go to five thousand dollars.
Finally the bid came from Mr. Riddle but only for one hundred dollars more. The auctioneer was disappointed but he took it quickly to keep things going. “I got four thousand one hundred dollars.” He turned back to Mr. Gerry. “Give me four thousand five hundred dollars, won’t you?” he pleaded before swinging back into his chant. “I want five, forty-five. Give me five, five, five, forty-five.”
Finally, after a long while, he got the nod. The tempo had slowed down and he was afraid Mr. Gerry had made his last bid. Only Mr. Riddle was left.
“I got four thousand five hundred dollars. I want five thousand. Give me five, I want five. Give me five …”
He caught Mr. Riddle glancing at Mrs. Gerry and scowling. His poise seemed to have left him for a moment, and he was apparently annoyed at the obvious part the women were playing in the bidding. His own wife, too, was talking to him again.
The auctioneer decided not to press matters for a little while. Give the women a chance to talk to their husbands, that was the order of the moment. He stopped his chant and turned to the big colt in the ring.
Man o’ War was still striding about the circle, his shank held by the young boy. The boy seemed very attached to the colt, for he kept his free hand on him all the time, almost comforting him. It must be tough to become attached to a colt and then lose him in the sales ring, the auctioneer decided. Funny, he’d never thought of that until now. But this kid sort of brought it out of him. All the others handling the colts had been old men. They were hardened, used to it.
He sure was a handsome colt, all right. The more you looked at him, the better you liked what you saw. Not often did one come along with bone structure like that. Maybe he should bring more than five thousand dollars. But even that wasn’t a bad price. Only a few would sell higher, and as things were going, the average price per colt wouldn’t be much over a thousand dollars.
This one might make everyone connected with him famous. And then again he might be a dud. No one knew. It was only human for people to see marks of greatness in a colt after he’d become great. But usually the facts didn’t bear them out at the time of the sale. Take this colt. It was like pulling teeth to get the bid up to where it was.
“I got four thousand five hundred dollars,” he began again, his eyes finding Mr. Riddle. “Won’t you make it
an even five thousand?”
He studied the gentleman’s eyes. It was obvious that Mr. Riddle wanted this colt but was annoyed that the price had gone up as high as it had. The auctioneer waited a moment more, for he was almost certain he’d get a raise in bid from him. Hadn’t Mr. Riddle gone up to over ten thousand dollars for several other colts, only to lose them? Therefore, if he really wanted this colt he shouldn’t object to paying five thousand.
“I want five, five. Give me five,” his chant started all over again. “Give me five. I want five.”
Louis Feustel was prodding Mr. Riddle, too. Finally the bid came, but only for two hundred dollars more.
The auctioneer grunted beneath breaths. As he’d said, it was like pulling teeth. “I got four thousand seven hundred dollars. I want five thousand. Give me five. I want five, five. Give me five.” Back to Mr. Gerry, and he got a raised bid of two hundred dollars more.
“Yeah! I got four thousand nine hundred dollars. Now give me five thousand. I want five, five. Give me five.”
Quickly he turned back to Mr. Riddle. Could he get a raise from him? Mr. Riddle was very annoyed, no doubt about it. He seemed reluctant to go any higher despite Feustel’s prodding that the colt was worth the price being asked. The auctioneer’s gaze shifted to Mrs. Riddle. Only she might be able to convince her husband to go higher. There, she had his ear.
Without interrupting his chant, he waited for her to finish talking to Mr. Riddle. Then, finally, after what seemed a long while the bid came, reluctantly, almost resignedly.
“Yeah! I got five thousand dollars. I want five hundred more. Give me five thousand five hundred dollars. I want five. Give me five.” He had turned back to Mr. Gerry, expecting and getting a vigorous shake of the gentleman’s head. Mr. Gerry was done. But then he felt that way himself. He had spent enough time selling this colt with so many others still to come.
“All done?” he asked, his eyes sweeping the area. There was complete silence, and his gavel fell solidly against the wood of the platform. “Sold to Mr. Riddle for five thousand dollars.”
He was turning back to his sales catalog when the boy led the big colt past him. Was he mistaken or was the boy actually crying?
Demon!
10
The race meeting at Saratoga ended but many of the yearlings purchased at the sales stayed on to be broken and prepared for their appearances as two-year-olds. Man o’ War was among them.
No longer was the paddock an outdoor reading room with people occupying the benches and chairs beneath the elms and maples, silently studying their sales catalogs. Trainers and owners were still absorbed in the study of yearlings but in a different way. The paperwork had ended. No longer was there need for small neat figures and notes on catalog margins opposite a yearling’s pedigree. Now the chips were down and the horsemen were girded for action, ready to find out the racing possibilities of the youngsters they had bought.
It was early in the morning and the sun filtered through the trees of the green and shaded acres. The sky was a shattering blue, festooned with big flat-bottomed puffs of white clouds. The tobacco-brown racing strip was empty, as were the stands. But the bright geraniums and petunias still nodded gently in the veranda window boxes, and the rosebushes about the course bloomed as full as ever. The grace and beauty that was Saratoga still remained even though the sprawling crowd had gone.
The old men employed by Nursery Stud gathered together their buckets and sponges and currycombs and prepared to depart for home. But Danny had no intention of leaving with them. He wasn’t going to walk off as if Man o’ War meant nothing to him.
So he stayed in the stall beside Man o’ War, waiting for Louis Feustel to come and take him to the Riddle stable. Finally the trainer entered.
“Hello again,” Feustel said, his eyes only for the Fair Play colt Mr. Riddle had bought.
“I’d like to stay with him,” Danny said. It was now or never. “You got a job for me?”
“What’s he like to be around?” Feustel never took his eyes from Man o’ War as he left the boy’s question unanswered.
“He’s nice and he’s smart,” Danny said quietly. “But don’t ever try to force him or you’ll come out second best every time. Ask him and he’ll do what you want. Push him and it’s all off.”
“You mean he’s high-spirited without being quarrelsome?”
“That’s what I mean.”
“I guess you ought to know,” Feustel said, turning to the boy for the first time and studying him as he had done the colt.
Danny ran his hand down one of Man o’ War’s legs and lifted his foot. “He’s real easy to work around, Mr. Feustel,” Danny went on eagerly, feeling that he might be getting somewhere with this man. “He’s almost like an old cow in the stall, but outside it’s a different story. Then he wants to go. He tries to be one step ahead of you every minute. You got to be on your toes.”
The trainer smiled at Danny’s outburst, then turned back to the red yearling. “He’s no baby, that’s for sure. Weighs about a thousand pounds, I imagine. Bigger than most of the others. That’s one reason I liked him. And not a pound of sales fat on him, either. Nothing to stop us from breaking him right away.”
Danny became more hopeful of getting a job. Feustel hadn’t turned him down yet. True, he hadn’t said yes. But he hadn’t said no either. “I’ve handled him a lot,” Danny went on eagerly, his eyes intent, his voice not as steady as he would have liked. “I don’t mean that I’ve pampered him or spoiled him. But he’s used to my hands running all over him and I’ve even rested my weight on his back. He shouldn’t object too much to a saddle.”
Louis Feustel nodded his head favorably. “There’s no doubt all that will help us, Danny,” he said. “If yearlings have been handled a lot they usually adapt themselves pretty well to the business of breaking. I’ve seen some accept bridle and rider in one session.” He paused, turning to the boy again. “Can we do that with him?”
Danny met the man’s gaze. “I don’t think so,” he said honestly. “It’ll take more time than that. It’s in him to put up some sort of a fight.”
Louis Feustel nodded again. “I think so, too,” he said. “And I’m glad you’re not so carried away by your colt to tell me otherwise. It won’t be easy breaking him, not with the blood of Hastings in him.”
“But he’s smart,” Danny said quickly. He didn’t want anyone to think his colt was as rebellious as his grandsire had been. “Once he learns what’s expected of him—”
“I hope so,” Feustel interrupted. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
“We,” Danny repeated slowly. “You mean I get the job?”
“We need you more than you think we do, Danny,” the trainer said. “It’ll make it easier for us if the colt has someone he knows around. Stay with him for now, anyway. We’ll see how things go.…”
Danny didn’t hear anything more Louis Feustel may have said. He was going to stay with Man o’ War, and nothing else mattered, nothing in this world.
Somehow the rest of the day passed quietly. Danny moved Man o’ War to his new stall in the Riddle stable but that was all. It was a time for settling down and getting used to their new home. Danny was given one of the cots in the tack room near Man o’ War and there was nothing for him to do but care for his colt twenty-four hours a day. Everything had worked out as he’d hoped it would. He could not have been happier.
That night he lay in his cot listening to the soft nickering of horses in adjacent stalls and the rustling of their feet in the straw bedding. He had no trouble telling which sounds were from Man o’ War. His colt was making the most noise of all.
One of the grooms said, “That Fair Play colt won’t settle down. He makes more racket than all the others put together.”
“He’ll be quiet in a few minutes,” Danny said in the darkness. “It just takes him a little longer than the others.”
“When they start breaking him, he’ll sleep nights,” the man said. “He’ll be
too tired to carry on like this.”
“They won’t tire him out,” Danny said. “Not him.”
The other groom laughed. “A bit in the mouth changes a lot of colts, kid. Yours won’t be no different.”
“Bits won’t change him. He’ll be up against it every minute. You’ll see.”
“We’ll see, all right,” the man said, laughing again. “But go ahead, kid. Brag about your colt, if you like. We all do it. We fight for our colts, too, if we have to. Even steal for them, if we must. I guess none of us would have it any other way.”
“That’s for sure,” a third groom said in the darkness. “My colt is the best colt in the stable. Anybody who doubts it is a liar.”
No one laughed or said anything. For a moment the tack room was quiet again except for the sounds of stabled horses.
“But don’t think, kid, that you can rub speed in your colt if he doesn’t have it,” the first man said thoughtfully. “No groom can.”
“Mine’s got it already,” Danny answered.
“Sure, so’s mine. If we didn’t love our horses we’d be pretty bad grooms. An’ let me tell you, a bad groom can ruin a horse faster than a bad trainer. He can undo six months’ work in a few minutes’ time through bad handling or neglect.”
“Go to sleep,” the third groom said. “Save it until tomorrow.”
“He’s sore because I took a colt away from him last year,” the second groom told Danny. “Proved to be too much horse for him to handle.”
Danny was quiet. They all took pride in their charges, the same as he did. Only the final test upon the racetrack would tell whose colt was the fastest.
“Ever put a saddle on Mahubah’s colt?” the first groom asked, as if wanting to continue the conversation far into the night.
“No,” he answered. It annoyed him a little that everyone in the Riddle stable referred to Man o’ War as Mahubah’s colt or that Fair Play colt. “His name is Man o’ War,” he added.
“A pretty impressive name. But what do you call him?”