“I hope so,” Jimmy said, and eager anticipation came to his hazel eyes with the speed of a camera shutter. “I sure hope so. I’d like to have a great one before—” He stopped abruptly and the enthusiasm left his eyes. “If only it didn’t take so long.”
“It’s not so long, Jimmy,” Tom said earnestly. “A little more than a year from now and we’ll be getting him ready to go.”
Jimmy Creech smiled grimly, saying, “Sure, Tom, I know. Maybe we can do it.”
Reaching the stables, they went down the long shed row until they came to Symbol’s stall. With all four men working on Symbol, they had his harness off, the sulky put away, and the horse washed in a matter of a few minutes. After Symbol had been walked by George and Tom, they put him in his stall; then they all sat in the chairs and talked.
For a long while Jimmy was cheerful, telling of the fairs where he and George had raced; then Tom noticed that his gaze turned more and more often to the brightly colored awnings set up in front of some of the other stables, and to the neatly arranged piles of fine blankets, the well-oiled and expensive harness, the water heaters and tack trunks and sulkies and training carts and spare wheels—all freshly painted and expensive. Then Jimmy’s gaze would sweep back to their seats in the sun, to his one sulky and little tack; and once he removed his racing cap and looked at it. Tom noticed for the first time how soiled it was.
“Sure getting to be a fancy business,” Jimmy said finally, and there was much bitterness in his voice. Tom and Uncle Wilmer turned to him, but George kept his gaze focused on the ground and chewed his tobacco.
“Look at that van. How’d you like to travel in that, George?” Jimmy indicated a large green-and-white-painted van that had the picture of a horse’s head drawn on its side. Beneath it was lettered: Ray O’Neil’s Stables—ROOSEVELT RACEWAY—Westbury, Long Island.
“It wouldn’t be much different from riding in Sadie.” George grinned, pointing to the dilapidated Ford horse van that was parked in front of them. “Sadie gets us there. That’s all we want.”
“But George, they have sleeping quarters in that one,” Jimmy said sarcastically. “And maybe a kitchen, too.”
“Nothin’ wrong with sleepin’ in a spare stall,” George replied. “Been good enough for me for a long time now.”
“Yes, but things have changed, George,” Jimmy said even more bitterly. “Harness racing is big-time now. They got night raceways just outside of about every big city. They don’t need the fairs no more—or people like us,” he added slowly.
“Cut it, Jimmy,” George said a little angrily.
But Jimmy Creech only turned to Uncle Wilmer and continued, “You wanta know why this guy Ray O’Neil who owns that fancy van came out to Reading Fair this week instead of staying at Roosevelt night raceway?”
Uncle Wilmer pulled his chair closer to Jimmy Creech, his eyes never leaving the man’s lips.
“Wanted to get some sun, that’s all,” Jimmy said. “That’s why he’s here.” He laughed loudly. “Take a day off and get some sun at a fair for him and his horses.”
“You’re not being square, Jimmy,” George interrupted. “They live one life at night raceways and we live another at the fairs. But it’s all harness racing. This Ray O’Neil is a good driver from all I heard. He topped ’em all at the raceways last year.”
“Young squirt,” Jimmy said. “He can’t drive. Why, I—” Jimmy’s hand went suddenly to his stomach and his face was white beneath the dark tan. It lasted only a few seconds, and when the pain had gone. Jimmy spat the chewing gum out of his mouth and opened another stick of gum. “Indigestion,” he said casually, conscious of the anxious eyes upon him.
“Stop getting yourself all excited about the raceways and guys like Ray O’Neil an’ you’ll be all right,” George said.
But Uncle Wilmer didn’t let the subject drop. “No young feller ever could hold the lines as well as us old-timers,” he told Jimmy. “You’re sure right about that. It takes age, and that’s what young fellers ain’t got. You’ll show this Ray O’Neil this afternoon, Jimmy. You’ll show him, all right.”
“He’ll have his chance,” George said. “O’Neil is in the first race, and that’s our race, too.”
“Jimmy’ll show him, all right,” Uncle Wilmer said again. “He sure will.”
And it was only then that Tom was able to change the subject. But he was worried about Jimmy, more worried than ever before. Jimmy wasn’t in any condition to race.
RACING WHEELS
9
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said over the public-address system. “Welcome to the races at Reading Fair.” Pausing, he waited a moment while the huge throng in the grandstand and bleachers turned its attention to him. “It’s another beautiful day and as usual your fair committee has arranged another fine day of racing. We’ve had some stirring races every day this week and I’m certain today will be no exception. It’s two o’clock and the horses are now leaving the paddock for the post parade of the first race on your program.”
While the eyes of the crowd turned to the horses and the drivers dressed in their colorful silks, the announcer continued, “For your information, this race is restricted to horses having won one thousand dollars or more but less than twelve hundred dollars during their racing careers. And now here they come down for the post parade, ladies and gentlemen. Your attention, please, while I introduce horses and drivers according to post position, reading from the top of your program down. Number one, who will race in the pole position, is Sandy Hanover, a gray horse by Spencer out of Jean Hanover; owned by Mr. Leo Hofeller of Butler, Pennsylvania, and being driven by professional reinsman Roy Moyer. Number two is Princess Holly, a dark bay mare by His Excellency out of …”
The people stopped reading their programs to take a quick look at each horse and driver as he was introduced while filing past the judges’ stand. Beyond the stand, the track infield lay green and beautiful in the sun. Across the backstretch of the half-mile track were the red carnival cars of the fair’s midway, while high above them circled a Ferris wheel, its silver paint glistening as it caught the sun’s rays.
“And in number six position,” the announcer was saying, “is Crusader, a dark chestnut horse by the very famous stallion, Volomite, and out of Lady Luck; owned by Mr. C. H. West of New York City, and driven by the leading driver of the night raceways, Ray O’Neil.
“Number seven, racing on the outside position, is Symbol, a black gelding by Direct Hollyrood and out of Mary K; owned and driven by Mr. Jimmy Creech of Coronet, Pennsylvania.” He paused, while Jimmy Creech, the last in the parade to pass the booth, tipped his red-and-white cap to the crowd. “The horses will take two warm-up scores in front of the grandstand and then face the starter.”
The drivers released their horses from prancing walks and moved quickly down the track to the first turn. There they stopped and then came back past the grandstand. Reaching the bleachers, they turned cautiously to avoid one another’s sulky wheels and horses and went down the stretch once more, moving faster now. Each repeated this fast scoring warm-up, then filed around the turn and down the backstretch, ready to come in behind the mobile starting gate awaiting them just off the back turn.
“Your attention, please, ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said. “For those of you who have never had the opportunity of watching the mobile starting gate in action, I’d like to explain briefly how it works. Our starter, Mr. George Reed, is riding in the back of that open convertible you see awaiting the horses just off the turn out there. You will notice the long poles to each side of the rear of the car and extending across the track. Behind these ‘wings,’ as we call them, the horses will come into their post positions. Mr. Reed will have his driver start the car moving away from the horses as they come up behind the ‘wings’ of the starting gate. By means of a microphone which is about his neck, and a loudspeaker at the rear of the car, he is able to instruct the drivers as to their position, c
onduct and speed while they all come down toward the starting line. He will bring them down the stretch, slowly at first, then faster as they approach the starting line directly in front of this booth. He will keep them together until he sends them off; the ‘wings’ of the mobile starter will swing away from the horses as they cross the starting line, and Mr. Reed will pull away from them and around the track. The race will then be on, ladies and gentlemen. The horses are now fanning out as they round the back turn and move toward the starter. This is the first heat of the first race on your program; the race will be for the best out of three heats and the second heat will take place just about one hour from now. Keep your eyes on the starter and the horses, ladies and gentlemen. They’re coming behind the gate, and Mr. Reed is moving away from them.”
Tom, his fists clenched around the paddock rail, stood beside George, and the skin over his knuckles tightened until it was white as he saw Jimmy take Symbol to the outside position close beside Ray O’Neil, driving Crusader. “Does Jimmy know how to get away behind these mobile starting gates, George?” he asked tensely.
“They had one at the York Fair; that’s the only time he’s been behind one,” George replied. “He did all right. It doesn’t take Jimmy long to learn anything. But he hates ’em,” he added, “—just like he does anything else that’s different from what it was forty years ago. Modern, silly gadgets, he calls ’em.”
“But these mobile starters get the horses away better,” Tom said, “and faster, too. The old way, when they come down to the starting line by themselves, they’re usually never together and are called back to start all over again. This mobile gate makes certain they get off the first time. It’s easier on everyone, it seems to me—the horses, drivers and the people watching. They know the race is on when they come down now.”
“Sure, I know,” George said. “But like I said, Jimmy don’t like any changes. He likes to keep the sport the way it was. Some of his criticisms of this mobile gate are good, too. He says the horses don’t like those ‘wings’ and the car in front of ’em; and then the wheels of the car usually throw dust in their faces. Yep, there’s a lot to what Jimmy says. But here they come now. Watch ’em, Tom.”
The horses were in position, pushing their heads toward the barrier in front of them as the car moved away, increasing its speed. Jimmy’s face was taut, and Tom saw him bring Symbol ever closer to Crusader. Ray O’Neil glanced at Jimmy but said nothing; yet he kept his position, and their spinning wire wheels were dangerously close.
George Snedecker’s hand left the rail to rest on Tom’s arm as their gazes followed the pounding horses, going ever faster down the stretch toward the starting line.
“Don’t come any faster, gentlemen,” they heard the starter warn the drivers. “Keep your horses back. Don’t charge the gate! Hold your positions now. Not so fast on the outside there. Mr. Creech, keep your horse back! Mr. Creech, don’t crowd Mr. O’Neil! All right now. Keep it that way! We’re coming down. GO!”
Tom and George leaned far over the rail as the crowd yelled to the quick thunder of unleashed hoofs. The line of horses drove as one down the stretch for the turn. The silks of the drivers blended into a large indistinct mass of colors as they bunched, moving toward the rail. For a second, Tom could make out Jimmy’s red-and-white silks, then he, too, moved toward the inside; a flash of green went with him and Tom knew Ray O’Neil and Crusader were going with him in an attempt to reach the turn first. He could make out nothing now of what was happening; he’d have to wait until they came around the first turn.
George muttered, “Symbol’s got the early speed. Jimmy might get away with it. But he’s takin’ a chance—a big chance.”
Suddenly, from the top tiers of the grandstand, came a sharp cry. From the moving mass on the turn, a horse swerved abruptly toward the outside rail and behind him careened the sulky with its driver trying desperately to stay in it and stop his horse at the same time.
The announcer’s voice came quickly over the public speaker. “Accident! Left wheel of sulky broken! It’s number seven; Mr. Creech’s entry. But there’s no danger. He’s stopping his horse. Will Mr. Creech’s groom go to his assistance, please! Keep him on the outside of the track, there’s a race going on! And now going in to the backstretch we have Crusader on top, followed by Sandy Hanover and tucked in the third position is …”
George and Tom had jumped the rail and were running down the track past the grandstand. Jimmy was off the broken sulky and was standing at Symbol’s head, awaiting them.
“I didn’t think he could get around all of ’em,” George said. “He shouldn’t have tried.”
“Crusader went up with him,” Tom said.
“Yeah, it could have been O’Neil who did it to him,” George said. “Crusader is fast at the break and O’Neil is no dumb bunny—even though he is a lot younger’n Jimmy. Jimmy probably thought he could force him back, and he got the worst of it.” They were only a few yards away from Jimmy now, and George added, “He’s goin’ to be mad. Careful what you say, Tom. Let him do the talkin.’ ”
Jimmy’s face was filled with rage. But he said nothing when they joined him, only nodding toward the wheel, which was smashed beyond repair. George lifted the sulky’s axle off the ground, and they moved up the outside of the track, with Tom leading Symbol while Jimmy walked beside him.
They were passing the grandstand when the horses came down the stretch for their first trip around the track; they had one more lap to go for the mile distance and the finish of the race.
“Crusader with Ray O’Neil three lengths on top at the half,” the announcer said. “Princess Holly closing fast on Sandy Hanover. Flash Count is coming up on the outside. He’s moving fast! Here they come!”
As the horses passed them, Jimmy Creech glanced only at Crusader, leading the way. He muttered something to himself, but said nothing to Tom. When they reached the bleachers, the attention of the crowd was focused on the race now being staged on the backstretch, but a few people turned to Jimmy and clapped lightly, attempting to let him know they shared his misfortune. Jimmy touched the peak of his cap, but Tom noticed his face redden and realized the people’s applause had served only to make him more angry. Jimmy needed a rest, a long rest. He was sick mentally and physically. The immediate future was going to be hard on all of them, Tom knew, for there was no telling what Jimmy would do in his present state. And there was the colt to think about. He wouldn’t want anything to happen to the colt or the Queen.
They were leaving the paddock gate when the horses entered the homestretch for the finish of the race. Turning, Tom saw that Ray O’Neil had Crusader five lengths in the lead. The sound of hoofs died beneath the roar of the crowd as the race ended; then the announcer’s voice came clearly to them, “First, Crusader; second, Princess Holly; third, Flash Count; fourth …”
Jimmy Creech, his head down, gave no evidence of having heard the results.
It was well after four o’clock when they left the fair for the farm. Jimmy sat beside Uncle Wilmer; Tom and George were in the back with Aunt Emma, who once more held her mincemeat pie, minus three pieces which the contest judges had eaten. Tom hadn’t asked her how she’d made out. He didn’t have to ask; he had only to look at that sober, lined face and he thought he knew. That’s why he was so surprised when he saw the red ribbon tucked away in Aunt Emma’s pocketbook when she opened it to get her handkerchief. “Y—You—you won a prize!” he said in amazement.
His aunt shrugged her shoulders, and turned again to look out the window of the car. “Only second,” she said. Tom thought she had finished until he heard her mumble half to herself, “To think they gave first prize to Mrs. Yoder.” She snorted. “Young enough to be my granddaughter.” Aunt Emma snorted again, then was silent.
Uncle Wilmer was the only one who cared to do any talking, and he couldn’t say much now that he was driving through Reading’s downtown traffic. Even George was alone with his thoughts. Tom sat back in his seat and thought bitt
erly, A great day at the fair! Everyone feels swell for it. Sure. Jimmy and Aunt Emma are angry because younger people did something better than they did. George is worried about Jimmy, and I’m worried about Jimmy, the Queen and the colt. But perhaps Jimmy will snap out of it; he’s had spells like this before. He’ll be able to take it easy now that the racing season is over and he can go back to Coronet.
George told me, Tom continued thinking, that a good hot meal tonight and seeing the colt will make Jimmy see things in a different light. With Aunt Emma’s cooking, Jimmy is certain to have the best of meals. And when he sees the colt he’ll know he’s the best, too. But it’s funny that Jimmy shows such resentment toward anything new in harness racing, especially the night raceways and the men who race there. This Ray O’Neil seems to be a very nice guy, and he’s not so young as Jimmy makes him out to be. He’s in his thirties. Jimmy was driving at that age. But he doesn’t think of that, not Jimmy. And O’Neil can drive, there’s no doubt about that. He hadn’t let Jimmy force him back, and had gone on to win. Then, after the heat he’d been nice enough to come around to offer Jimmy a spare wheel to use in the second heat of the race when he heard Jimmy didn’t have one. But Jimmy had given him a curt refusal, and said he was withdrawing from the race. That’s what Jimmy had done. He hadn’t even gone out for the second heat. And that wasn’t like the old Jimmy, either—to quit a race.
“What’s the color of the colt, Tom?”
It was Jimmy’s voice and Tom lifted his gaze to find the man turned around in his seat, looking at him. “He’s a bay, Jimmy,” Tom said. “Black mane and tail, what there are of them now,” he added, smiling. “But it’s hard for me to tell what shade of bay he’s going to be, because he’s still covered with furry baby hair. Maybe you’ll know. But it doesn’t look as though he’s going to be that dark mahogany brown like the Queen. I think he’s going to be lighter, much lighter, maybe even a red bay.”