“No,” he said thoughtfully, after a long silence. “It’s not for me … not from what I’ve seen so far. But I don’t want to condemn it ‘cause it isn’t for me, the way Jimmy does. Like I said once before, every person to his own likes. Our sport ain’t always belonged to the fairs, you know. Before the fairs we used to block off roads in the center of town an’ race every day. Guess you could call this a super blocked-off road.” He paused, laughing at his own comparison.
“And although it isn’t for me or Jimmy or maybe for you,” George added sincerely, “it’s good for our sport in a lot of ways. Raceways like this all ’round the country mean a lot more people are takin’ to our sport, and in time they’ll learn to love it the same as we do.” George paused again, this time to think for a while before going on.
“When I think about it,” he said, “what I’d like to see happen more than anything else is to get all these people out to the fairs to see what they’re missing. If they enjoy the races here they’ll like fair racing even more. They’ll feel the difference themselves. And that, Tom, will be the best thing that ever happened to them and to our sport.”
Tom said, “Then I guess you and Jimmy have a lot in common, George. You both want to get the people to the fairs, to get it back the way it was.”
“Not quite,” George replied. “Jimmy hates raceways like this an’ wants to see an end to ’em. I don’t. I say let the raceways give city folk a taste of our sport and get them interested. Then some way get them out to the fairs in the daytime to see the real thing … to feel it as they can’t here.”
Promptly at eight-forty, post time for the first race, there was a ringing of the paddock bell and the horses paraded onto the track. Roosevelt Raceway officials prided themselves on an efficient, to-the-minute prompt race program—and the reasons were apparent to Tom beginning with the ringing of the paddock bell.
There was no delay in the post parade. A red-coated marshal led the field past the grandstand and drivers and horses were introduced. There was no lagging by any driver and they kept a close single file. The announcer gave only the name of the horse and its driver, leaving the spectators to consult their programs for information as to color, breeding and owner; this, Tom realized, was super-efficiency aimed at getting the horses away fast in the first race. And he missed the leisurely, friendly voices of the fair announcers, acquainting the crowd with all the information despite the fact that it appeared on the program.
The two warm-up scores were short and fast; then the parade filed behind the mobile starting gate awaiting them at the head of the stretch. Tom saw the flashy, long white four-door open limousine. This, too, was in keeping with spectacular Roosevelt Raceway!
The car moved, and behind its barrier the horses and drivers came down for the start. Gleaming coats of horses and the colorful silks of their drivers flashed beneath the lights. When they swept across the starting line, the lights in the grandstand dimmed. The brilliantly lighted track was now the center of attention. The show was on!
Tom watched closely as each driver fought hard to reach the turn first. He saw them move into it and come around, some tucked in close to the rail, others already making their bids for the lead. His eyes never left the tightly packed group all through the race as he watched the strategy of the drivers. They passed the stands the first time around still close together, still fighting for positions … and they continued that way all around the track again, coming down the homestretch in a hard-driving finish that called for a photograph to decide the winner.
When it was over, Tom knew that the strategy used here was no different from that at the fairs. Maybe the raceway drivers cut their turns a little closer and took more of a risk getting through narrow openings, but otherwise there was no difference. Strategy that won races at fairs would win them here.
The lights went on throughout the grandstand, and George said, “One dash an’ it’s over for them. No more heats … nothin’. Just pick up their purse money and look forward to another race.”
“You can’t make any mistakes in a dash,” Tom said.
“No,” George agreed. “You get no chance to get back at ’em in the next heat like you do at the fairs.” He paused to look at the horses still on the track, their drivers awaiting the results of the photo finish. “That old boy was right up with the young fellers,” he said.
The picture was developed and the results of the first race were announced to the crowd.
“The old fellow didn’t win it,” Tom said afterward.
“No … they pushed him back,” George replied. “These young fellows make up for their lack of experience by takin’ more chances. You’ll have to watch ’em, Tom, on Saturday.”
Suddenly the announcer said to the packed throng, “Your attention, please.” A hush settled over the stands, and he went on: “We would like to call your attention again to the feature race on Saturday night’s program. It’s the Two-Year-Old American Championship Race! Ten of the nation’s top two-year-olds will meet in one dash for a ten-thousand-dollar purse. The field includes Silver Knight, Phillip Cox’s outstanding gray colt, heralded by many who have seen him race this season here at Roosevelt as the wonder colt of the decade. Matching strides with Silver Knight will be Princess Guy, the black filly which Miss Elsie Topper drove to a new world’s record of two o three at the Reading Fair this week. Rest assured, ladies and gentlemen, that the meeting of Silver Knight and Princess Guy Saturday night will result in still a lower world record mark for two-year-olds!
“You won’t want to miss this race! So make your seat reservations before leaving the raceway tonight!”
When the announcer had finished, Tom turned to George. “No mention of the other colts in the race … or Bonfire,” he said a little bitterly.
“Bonfire’s record of two nineteen at the Port Royal Fair don’t mean much to ’em,” George returned. “Not when they’re talkin’ about two o three record colts.”
“But …”
“Sure, I know, Tom. We ain’t let Bonfire out. But we will Saturday night.”
Nodding, Tom turned to look toward the paddock where the horses were coming promptly onto the track for the second race. He couldn’t see much over the heads of the people in front of him, so finally he turned again to George. “The announcer said there’d be ten horses in the race Saturday night. That’s a big field, George.”
“Too big,” his friend answered. “The track has room only for nine horses across it. It means whoever draws the number ten position will have to follow the others, racing behind the pole horse.”
“That won’t be good,” Tom said thoughtfully.
“No, it won’t. Not in a fast field like that one’s going to be. You got to try to get out first with Bonfire, Tom. That way you can let him go … an’ you won’t have to worry about the drivin’ of those guys behind you. Get Bonfire out front and keep him there. He’ll stay there.”
“I know he will … if I can get him out.”
“Number ten position will be the only one to stop you from gettin’ him out, Tom … and the chances are only one in ten that you’ll draw that spot.”
“I hope our luck holds, George—for all of us and for Jimmy.”
“The luck of the draw,” George muttered. “Tomorrow at noon we’ll know.”
The next day, exactly at twelve o’clock, Bonfire was entered in the Two-Year-Old Championship Race. George turned over the five-hundred-dollar entrance fee to the race secretary, then stepped back in the office to make room for the other people who were entering their colts. He rejoined Tom and Uncle Wilmer in a far corner of the room, and waited with them for the entries to be finished and the draw for positions to begin.
Miss Elsie was there, but she only nodded to them and did not speak. Phillip Cox entered Silver Knight, then joined his driver, Ray O’Neil. Cox gazed several times at Tom and George, as though trying to remember where he had seen them. Finally his glances ceased, and Tom knew that Coronet was too far removed fro
m this Raceway and Cox’s fight with Jimmy Creech too long ago for the wealthy sportsman to remember either. Not at this moment, anyway.
Neither did the slender, long-legged Ray O’Neil remember them from the Reading Fair two seasons before, when he had offered Jimmy Creech a new wheel for the one broken during the race. Frank Lunceford was in the room, too. It was Lunceford who had hooked sulky wheels with Jimmy at the Bedford Fair, the crash which had sent Jimmy to the hospital. George looked at the chubby, heavy-set man for a long while, expecting Lunceford to remember him because together they had gone to the hospital with Jimmy. But Lunceford didn’t recognize him, either.
There were other young drivers in the room, and like Ray O’Neil and Frank Lunceford they were well known on every raceway track throughout the country. They had been through the drawings for position in championship races before, yet their faces and voices made it evident to Tom that they were as tense as he was. Like him, they knew that the luck of the draw would play an important part in the Two-Year-Old Championship.
The entries for the race closed, and, just as the announcer had told the crowd the night before, there were ten starters. Now would come the draw for positions.
The positions were to be assigned by lot. The race secretary put the name of each horse on a slip of paper, then deposited it in an upturned hat on his desk; his assistant stood beside him, shaking a box which was closed except for a very small opening. Tom heard the rattling of the balls inside the box. He knew there were ten balls, numbered one to ten.
“Please,” he mumbled to himself, “any number but ten.”
Uncle Wilmer turned to him with keen, eager eyes. “You’ll win with Bonfire even from ten, all right,” he said.
Tom managed a grim smile. No longer did they have to raise their voices for Uncle Wilmer to hear them; deafness was just a convenience, a way for him to escape Aunt Emma’s wrath.
After shaking the hat with the slips of paper in it, the race secretary placed the hat on a shelf behind him. He couldn’t see inside the hat now; no one could.
“Ready, Bill?” the secretary asked his assistant. “Let’s go, then.”
No one in the room moved or talked when the race secretary drew one slip of paper from the hat and simultaneously his assistant shook out a numbered ball from the covered box.
“Victory Boy,” the secretary said, “number five position.”
Tom turned to Frank Lunceford, driver of Victory Boy, and saw the smile on the man’s round, chubby face.
“That’s okay,” Lunceford said, turning and leaving the room.
“Raider,” the secretary continued, drawing another slip of paper and reading it. He picked up the next ball that had been shaken from the box. “Number nine,” he added.
Another man left the room.
“Silver Knight,” the secretary said. Every face in the room turned quickly to Phillip Cox and Ray O’Neil, standing together, then all gazes shifted quickly to the ball on the desk. “Number two position,” the secretary added.
Phillip Cox uttered a sharp yell, then left the room with his arm across Ray O’Neil’s shoulders. Silver Knight had one of the best positions in the race; Phillip Cox’s luck was holding good.
Tom looked at Miss Elsie and saw that she was very worried. She was moving uneasily about the room now, and her glasses shifted up and down as she wiggled her large nose.
The race secretary was drawing faster now. “Volomite’s Comet … number four position.”
Smiling, another man left the room.
“Princess Guy,” the secretary said next.
Miss Elsie stopped pacing, and her face was tight and drawn as she waited for the secretary to pick up the numbered ball.
“Number one … the pole position for Princess Guy.”
Miss Elsie’s large teeth seemed to fill the room when she smiled, then she left quickly.
Tom started shifting uneasily while the secretary called off more positions with no mention of Bonfire. The number seven position went next, then numbers six and eight. There were only two more positions left to be drawn—number three and number ten!
George and Uncle Wilmer moved a little away from Tom in their uneasiness. Across the room stood the only other representatives of a horse in the race, the driver and the owner of Chief Express, They too moved about nervously, then stood still as the race secretary reached for the hat.
“Please, please,” Tom mumbled to himself, “not ten. Give us a chance, give us three.”
“Chief Express,” the secretary said, then he reached for the moving ball.
All eyes watched it come to a stop. And they saw the number even before the secretary read it off.
Number three!
The men at the other end of the room yelled together and rushed for the door, leaving Tom, George and Uncle Wilmer alone with the secretary.
“Y’might as well pull it out of the hat anyway,” George grimly told the race secretary.
But already Tom had started for the door.
Before reaching it, he heard the secretary say, “Bonfire.”
Then came the sound of the rolling ball, the very last ball in the box, on the desk. “Number ten position.”
Opening the door, he heard the footsteps of George and Uncle Wilmer behind him.
“It’s too bad,” the race secretary called after them. “But it’s the luck of the draw.”
THE TWO-YEAR-OLD CHAMPIONSHIP
20
Bonfire had been in his paddock stall for more than an hour, waiting for the championship race to be called. He wore his light racing harness but not his bridle, and he was not yet hitched to his sulky. Behind him, standing upright against the wall, were the long shafts of the sulky, ready to be lowered and hooked to him.
He wore Jimmy’s old white blanket with the red borders over his harness; for the September night was unusually cool and the sky overcast. There were no stars, and only the galaxy of floodlights shattered the darkness. Bonfire blinked in their brilliant glare and uneasily nuzzled Tom’s hand.
The boy stayed with him every minute, turning only occasionally to glance up the line at the other two-year-olds stabled according to their positions in the race. In the number 1 paddock stall was Princess Guy, and Miss Elsie never moved from her filly’s side. In the next stall was the gray colt, Silver Knight, and standing before him were Phillip Cox and his driver, Ray O’Neil. They kept glancing at the black filly in the next stall, but never looked at any other colt in the race. Silver Knight was muzzled just now to prevent him from nipping anyone; his meanness was well known. He wore a brilliant red-and-white blanket across which was lettered, “Cox Clothing Company.”
George said, “You never said what you think of him.” And he nodded toward Silver Knight’s stall.
Uncle Wilmer moved closer to hear what Tom had to say about the gray colt.
“He’s too coarse for me,” the boy said, keeping his eyes on Silver Knight. “I’ve watched him work. But he’s rugged and can go. He lacks the finish, though. I like to see them clean like Miss Elsie’s filly and our colt. His legs are good boned and shaped well, but his feet will give him trouble one of these days. They’re too large and flat.”
George and Uncle Wilmer nodded in agreement.
“That’s jus’ what I would have said about him,” Uncle Wilmer said impressively. “A horse is only as good as his feet … an’ his are too large and flat, all right.”
George said, “I hear Cox was offered seventy-five thousand dollars for him just tonight, an’ he turned it down.”
“He’s not for me.” Tom said, turning back and running his hands beneath Bonfire’s blanket. “Even if I had that kind of money.”
They had nothing to do but wait for the call, so they stood restlessly and a little sheepishly amidst the strange surroundings. The paddock was empty of men except for owners, drivers and track officials. They could see the milling mass of humanity on the other side of the high wire fence which separated the paddock from the gran
dstand. Track guards filed up and down alongside the fence, an extra precaution to keep spectators away from the horses. No, it wasn’t at all the same as at the fairs. And in the grandstand, and standing in front of it right up to the rail, were more people than any of them ever had seen in one group before. The great number of people was overwhelming, even a little frightening.
Tom turned away from them to think of Jimmy, to wonder again why they still had heard no word from Dr. Morton. He knew George was worried, too, but neither of them had mentioned it to the other. Tom knew that he shouldn’t be thinking about Jimmy just now—not with so much ahead of him and Bonfire.
Ever since the drawing for positions, Tom had discussed with George and Uncle Wilmer the only race strategy he could use from his number ten position. Yet now he turned to them again and spoke of it. He wanted to make certain of what he had to do.
“I’ll keep him close behind Miss Elsie,” he said. “Right from the start I’ll go along with her and her filly …”
“She’ll get you out in front of the others, if you keep Bonfire breathin’ down her neck,” George said. “Her filly’s got the speed to get her out in front. You jus’ follow close behind an’ go out with her.”
“An’ once you’re clear of the others,” Uncle Wilmer added, “you can pull out from the rail an’ go around her and that black filly. Bonfire can do it, all right” he said confidently, turning to the colt to run his hand down the red-braided forelock.
It was then they heard the paddock marshal shout, “Hook ’em up, boys. We’re going out in a few minutes.”
Tom swallowed hard. The show was about to begin! And now each stall was the scene of much activity.
George and Uncle Wilmer went quickly to either side of the colt and, reaching the sulky, pulled down the shafts. Without removing Bonfire’s blanket, they hitched the sulky to the harness.
Tom talked softly to his colt while he put on the light racing bridle and adjusted the head number 10. He was still a little nervous and his uneasiness communicated itself to Bonfire, for the colt began tossing his head. Tom ran his hand beneath the heavy black mane, rubbing the silken coat. “We’re on, Bonfire,” he said. “We’re going out.”