Later back at the stables they washed Bonfire and Henry said, “He kind of lost his eagerness to go durin’ that last mile, didn’t he?”
“He didn’t pull very much,” Alec admitted. “I guess he was getting tired.”
“He sure was. He’s as sweated as they come. You’d think he’d been worked.”
“Will you have me turn him tomorrow?” Alec asked.
“No. He’s goin’ to get a lot more joggin’. We’ll go six miles at a faster clip than you went today. And there’ll be more of that to come.”
Alec kept working and said nothing. Later he walked the blanketed colt about the stable area. He paid no attention to such things as old and lovely trees whose leafy boughs brushed against him. Only Bonfire noticed the difference between this walk and the ones he had taken at Roosevelt Raceway, and he reached for the green leaves.
Alec knew he was being impatient in wanting to turn Bonfire the right way of the track. He realized Henry was right in making an attempt to build up their colt’s stamina as much as possible in one short week. But Alec couldn’t help wondering how Bonfire’s speed compared with that of the other Hambletonian colts. He hadn’t expected them to go so fast as they had this morning. If he worked Bonfire alongside them he’d know what to expect in the big race. But Henry wasn’t going to let him turn Bonfire. He might as well forget it.
The next two mornings went a little easier for Alec in that the other Hambletonian colts were only jogged, so he didn’t have to witness their extreme speed. So he too jogged his colt, watching the others and their drivers with eyes that sought out their good points and faults. And long after they’d left the track he continued jogging Bonfire the extra miles Henry had ordered.
He knew by this time that Lively Man, the roan son of Titan Hanover, was heavy-legged and wouldn’t have to be feared greatly in the Hambletonian. What made him doubly certain of this was the fact that he was being driven by Fred Ringo. Ringo’s high standing as a driver at Roosevelt Raceway had been earned because his stable consisted mostly of aged horses. He seldom rated his horses but pushed them from start to finish as fast as they’d go. Colts couldn’t stand that kind of treatment, especially one like Lively Man. He’d collapse if Ringo tried it in the Hambletonian. And Alec was certain that Ringo wasn’t going to change overnight, especially when the stakes were so high. He’d be out for the lead early and then attempt to stay there at any cost.
Silver Knight was more of a threat than Alec had thought at Roosevelt Raceway. The gray son of Volomite seemed to be taking very well to the mile track. It suited his long strides better than the half-mile oval.
But most of all Alec worried about the old men who sat so casually behind their Hambletonian colts. They were men whose faces showed no strain of the approaching race, and who joked freely with one another as they jogged along, mile after mile. Jimmy Creech would have felt at home with them. Indeed, he might have been one of them had it not been for his illness.
Saturday morning everything changed once more for Alec. It was work day for the Hambletonian colts, their last before the big race. Fred Ringo and the other raceway drivers arrived, having let their second trainers do the jogging for the two previous days. They all turned their colts the right way of the track. The old men no longer joked with one another.
Alec jogged Bonfire, and watched them go. He became more and more miserable as their speed increased and finally his gaze left them. Why look at them? he thought. Why make it harder?
When he had completed seven miles with Bonfire he went back to the barn. Henry noted his anxiety, and said, “Stop worrying about the others, Alec. Look at your colt. He’s wet but you don’t see much sweat on him. We’re gettin’ there all right. A few weeks more and we’d have it.”
“But we have only three days,” Alec said. “Aren’t you going to let me turn him at all? He really wants to swing around and go.”
Henry chuckled. “Let him wait for the Hambletonian,” he said, “… and you too, Alec.” He went around Bonfire and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulders. “I don’t mind you and him wantin’ so much to turn. It’s good, and when you do turn I’ll be watchin’ you, all right.”
The big change came over Goshen Sunday night, for it was then that people began arriving for Hambletonian Week. The small hotel and inn filled rapidly, the overflow moving on to tourist homes and to hotels in nearby cities. But all this was only a mild tremor to the quake that would shake Goshen the following Wednesday. On Hambletonian Day would come thousands of people from all over the country, by special trains, planes and buses. Goshen would accept its heavy burden proudly and graciously, knowing that for a few hours it had come into its own again.
Monday morning the change swept quickly over Good Time Park. Great awnings of alternating orange and blue stripes extended over the bleachers and grandstand. Tents had been erected about the grounds and inside them prospered cake sales and church dinners. On the tall pole in the track’s infield flew the blue-and-white flag of harness racing’s “Grand Circuit.”
Hambletonian Week had begun!
At noon Henry went to the race secretary’s office and dropped a slip bearing Bonfire’s name in the Hambletonian entry box. He also made out a check for the required five hundred dollars to start their colt in the race. And then he drew post position number 6.
When he returned to the barn Alec was anxiously awaiting him. “Well, we’re in,” Henry said. “Only about forty-eight hours to go now. Nothin’ to it.”
“What position did you draw?”
“A good one, six. We’re in the first tier of ten colts with eight more starting behind us.”
Alec said, “Then we’ve a good chance to get out in front of any jam.”
Henry smiled. “I think so,” he answered. “In fact, I think we got a better chance of doin’ that than I have of collectin’ from Jimmy the five hundred dollars I just had to put down for him.”
Tuesday morning newspapers throughout the United States carried the following story, filed directly from Good Time Park:
FIELD OF 18 TO RACE IN
RICHEST HAMBLETONIAN
TOMORROW
Lively Man Slim Favorite
to Win $105,000 Race
Fastest Colts in History
of Famed Hambletonian
to Answer Post Call
BY “COUNT” CORNWELL
Goshen, N.Y., Aug. 6—The names of eighteen horses were dropped into the entry box for tomorrow’s Hambletonian Stake, making this the richest of all prizes in harness racing’s world famous classic with a gross value of more than $105,000.
There’s talk going around Goshen today that not only will this Hambletonian be the richest in its long history but also the fastest. Never before have so many colts approached the classic race with such record-breaking times behind them. Nor have Goshen “rail-birds” ever witnessed such speed as has been displayed by this year’s Hambletonian eligibles in their clocked workouts during the past week in final preparation for the big one tomorrow.
For these reasons, together with the fact that few of the colts have met each other in competition this year, there is no odds-on favorite for the classic. Lively Man is liked by many who recall his spectacular victories at Roosevelt Raceway over Victory Boy, Chief Express and Silver Knight, all of whom will go to the post with him. The last-named colts have taken a liking to Good Time Park’s kite-shaped mile track, as indicated by their record-breaking works. Silver Knight in particular has shown marked improvement over his half-mile racing form at Roosevelt. Perhaps this big gray colt needed the longer straightaways he has here. Or, perhaps, it was the switch in his drivers, for Paco DeBlois, second only to Freddy Ringo in the Roosevelt driver-standings, is now sitting behind him.
However, the old-timers who have spent day after day at the Goshen rail aren’t impressed by the colts from the night raceways or the young, harried-looking men driving them. No, indeed. They’ll tell you that Hambletonians are won by old boys like themselves, me
n who race their colts during daylight hours and usually on the “Roaring Grand,” harness racing’s Grand Circuit meetings at the big state fairs. They’ll tell you that the colts to watch tomorrow are High Noon, Fibber, Bear Cat, Princess Guy, Ghost Raider and Tangiers, all of whom are being driven by men over fifty years of age, men who have raced many a Hambletonian and know what to expect from their colts in order to win it.
Others here say to keep your eye on the colts who have been raced lightly this year and come mostly from the small-fair circuits. They’ll tell you that these colts–Cricket, King Midas, Big Venture, Bonfire, Star Queen, Lord Bobbie, Mismatch, and The Saint—wouldn’t be here at all if their trainers didn’t have something cooking that might upset the heavily laden gold wagon of this year’s Hambletonian. And the blazing time trials worked by these colts, with the exception of Bonfire, who’s only been jogged, have added strength to their predictions.
So take your pick from this year’s top three-year-olds–the night winners or day winners; the champions from the big state fairs or the small county circuits. They’re all here at Goshen, and the hands taking them to the post tomorrow will be aged and experienced or young and deadly ambitious. The stakes are high—$105,000 and a place forever in harness-racing history.
THE PARTY’S OVER
12
Tuesday evening the air was cool and pleasant but heavily laden with suspense, everybody waiting for Hambletonian Day to come.
“Let’s get away from here for a while, Alec,” Henry said. “We’ll go to the inn and have dinner there. The change will do us good.”
“But what about the colt?”
“I’ll get someone to look after him,” Henry returned. “There’s an old guy just up the row who’ll be glad to watch him for us. We won’t be gone long.”
Shortly afterward they walked out the police-guarded track gate. A few blocks away they saw a crowd assembled in the village square, where a small fair was going on. But Henry avoided it. “Let’s eat first,” he said.
“I’m not very hungry.”
“We’ll eat anyway,” Henry answered.
They walked into the inn, which was just a block from the village square. The lobby and dining room were crowded and noisy but they were soon given a table.
Henry sat down heavily, the light chair creaking beneath his weight. He looked around at the diners. “Just what we needed,” he said. “A nice change.” Turning to Alec, he saw that the boy was gazing intently at the horse pictures on the wall. “Stop looking at horses,” he commanded. “We’re supposed to be gettin’ away from them. Look at the people … or your menu.”
Alec picked up his menu, but all around him he could hear people talking about the coming day’s race. He glanced at Henry. “We’re not getting away from horses in this town tonight,” he said.
“No, I guess not,” Henry admitted. “But try not to listen.”
After they’d given their orders to the waitress, Alec looked out the large window near them. Less than a hundred yards away was a half-mile track with a small grandstand beside it.
Henry said, “A town the size of a peanut and they have two tracks within a few blocks of each other. I don’t think there’s another place like it in the country.”
“I guess that’s why the Hambletonian is being raced here,” Alec answered.
After dinner they found themselves walking toward the small track, and then alongside the rail to the stable area.
Henry grunted. “What’d we come this way for? We’re supposed to be gettin’ away from tracks and horses.”
Alec laughed. “We found we couldn’t. We gave up.”
They walked up the road past the stables. Several Hambletonian colts were stabled here, and every morning they were led the few blocks to Good Time Park for their session on the big track.
An elderly man came out of the end barn. He could have been Jimmy Creech except that his face was unlined whereas Jimmy’s was deeply wrinkled. “Howdy,” he said, and when they stopped to talk to him he removed his peaked cap, running a hand around the stiff, white fringe of hair that ringed his bald dome. It made Alec think of George.
“Here’s hopin’ you have a good trip tomorrow,” Henry said.
Not too good, Alec corrected mentally. For this man was Silas Bauder, winner of last year’s Hambletonian, and tomorrow he’d be driving the top colt, Bear Cat.
“Same to you two,” Silas Bauder replied, including Alec. “Y’got a nice lookin’ colt, all right. But you ain’t done much with him, have you?”
Henry said, “He’ll do, I think.”
“Sure he will,” Bauder came back chattily. “There are a lot of good colts here, all right. Best year I can remember. It’s goin’ to be a real big party out there tomorrow.” He laughed heartily.
“Where have you been racing, Mr. Bauder?” Alec asked.
“Don’t go callin’ me Mister Bauder. It’s Si. I started Bear Cat early this spring in California with the rest of my stable, and then came here. Mile tracks only for him.” He turned back to Henry. “Don’t mind tellin’ you that racin’ mile tracks gives me a big advantage over most of you fellas an’ your colts. You take a colt off the half-milers and put him on a mile track expectin’ him to take to it right away. As a rule it doesn’t work that way. It takes time, but no one seems to pay any attention to me when I tell ’em that.”
“It makes sense to me,” Henry said. “I’m listenin’.”
Si Bauder smiled. “It’s too late to do you any good tomorrow,” he said.
“Yes,” Henry agreed, “I’m afraid so.”
Later they walked down the crowded streets of Goshen, and finally went up the steps leading to the long sweeping porch of the hotel. Henry led Alec to the far end, where it was comparatively quiet, and they sat down. They were still a part of all the noisy Hambletonian Eve activity but a little removed from it. For a long while they sat in silence, each concerned with thoughts that had nothing to do with all that went on in the street.
Alec’s thoughts were of the fast quarter of a mile Henry had let him and Bonfire go that morning. Holding Bonfire down to the time Henry had ordered had been one of the most difficult jobs in his life. It had been so long since Bonfire had been turned that he’d wanted to go all out and all the way. As much as Alec had wanted to let him go, he knew that he had to hold the colt down, in order to conserve his speed and stamina for the big race the next day.
Henry removed his feet from the porch railing and said, “About that quarter-mile this morning.”
“Yes?”
“After you’d gotten him slowed down an’ that black mare passed you, weren’t you a little slow in closing the cup?”
“Yes, I was,” Alec admitted. “She surprised me … or I guess I was thinking too much about Bonfire’s sprint. She was up beside me before I knew it. But it was all right. I closed the cup in time.”
Henry said nothing. He put his feet back up on the rail, seemingly concerned with all that was going on in the street. But actually he saw nothing and he thought only of the problem that had been haunting him for a long while. So far as he was concerned, the right decision was more important than winning a Hambletonian. And he had less than twenty-four hours in which to make up his mind regarding that decision.
“Alec?”
“Yes, Henry?”
The old trainer didn’t turn toward Alec. He looked only at his feet, bringing the tips of his shoes together and then apart again slowly. “I’d like your advice.”
“You don’t often ask for it,” Alec said lightly.
“Sure I do.” Henry paused before going on. “What happened to the colt when that black mare pulled up an’ you didn’t close the cup right away?”
“Nothing happened to him. I told you I closed it in time.”
“But what if you hadn’t?” Henry asked.
“You know what would have happened if I hadn’t,” Alec said in a surprised voice.
“No, I don’t,” Henry said abruptly. �
�That’s why I’m askin’ you. And I don’t want you to go jumpin’ to conclusions, either. Did you feel him tighten when that mare drew alongside and before you closed the cup?”
“No, he was steady,” Alec answered quietly.
“An’ tell me about all this past week while you were joggin’ and bein’ passed so often. Did you feel any fear or tenseness at all in him when they went by? You held the lines. You’re the only one who’d know.”
“No, I didn’t feel anything like that,” Alec said. “I’d forgotten about it, and so had he. The hood’s responsible.” He paused before going on. “I don’t know what you’re driving at, Henry. You know all this.”
“I know what I see,” the old trainer said, turning to Alec for the first time. “An’ I think it’s time we took off the hood.” He looked at the boy a long while, waiting for him to speak.
Finally Alec said, “You don’t mean tomorrow, Henry.”
“Yes, I mean just that.” When Alec turned away from Henry’s close scrutiny the trainer went on, “From what I’ve seen and what you’ve told me I don’t think he needs it any more. He’s worn it in one race an’ for many miles since then. He’s got his self-confidence back. He knows he’s not goin’ to be knocked over whenever a horse passes him. So I say it’s time to take it off.”
“But why tomorrow, Henry?” Alec’s voice was as low as it could be and still be heard.
“Tomorrow is as good a time as any,” Henry answered. “Once a mechanical aid has done its job you take it off, an’ the sooner you do it the better. If you don’t, your horse gets so he really depends upon it an’ ends up wearin’ it the rest of his life.” He stopped a few seconds and then added, “Look at it this way, Alec. It’s a wise parent who takes a kid’s glasses off when he doesn’t need them any more. Leave them on an’ his eyes get so used to them that he can never take them off. He’s stuck with ’em for life. It’s the same thing with the hood.”
The Black Stallion's Sulky Colt Page 10
