Man O'War

by Walter Farley

  “And perhaps us, too,” Mr. Riddle said, consulting his catalog. “Major Belmont is one of the best breeders in the country and I aim to get one of his colts anyway. There are a couple I like better than this one.”

  “I do, too,” Feustel admitted. “And so do a lot of other people. They’ll sell high.”

  “I like Fair Gain,” Mr. Riddle said.

  “And Richelieu and Rouleau,” Feustel added. “All of them by foreign sires, and that’s what buyers seem to like right now. You won’t get any of them cheap, Mr. Riddle, even with a war going on.”

  They all stepped away from Man o’ War, and Danny thought they were going on. Then Mr. Riddle turned back to the colt, his eyes moving over him again. Finally the big man said, “Let’s watch for this one, anyway. He’s well worth considering on bloodlines alone, and I’ll go a thousand or two for him.”

  Louis Feustel patted the colt’s neck. “I think we should go higher than that, if we have to,” he said quietly.

  Mr. Riddle shrugged his shoulders, and it was his wife who had the last word. “If Louis says buy, when the time comes, I’d buy,” she repeated her advice quietly.

  Danny watched them as they went on to the next barn, shaking their heads in disapproval of Man o’ War. But he had a gnawing feeling in his stomach that he had just seen the new owners of his colt. He wouldn’t have felt that way if it hadn’t been for Mrs. Riddle; when a woman entered a battle for anything, she usually didn’t let go. And it seemed to him that Mrs. Riddle wanted Man o’ War. Maybe it was because she felt sorry for him! That would be a laugh, a real laugh … on himself.

  Danny led the big colt back to his stall, and there he gently ran a hand over the rough, sunburned coat. “Maybe I should have spent more time rubbing you,” he said, “and had you all sleek and polished. But how was I to know she was coming along?”

  Sold!

  9

  Saturday, August 17, found the Nursery Stud yearlings ready to step into the sales ring. Danny watched the crowd gather beneath the ancient trees of the paddock, noting that the women, dressed in flowing silks and wide-brimmed hats, seemed as numerous as the men. He shook his head in dismay. There was no telling where their colts might end up, with so many women taking part in the bidding!

  Danny stood at Man o’ War’s head, waiting for the Nursery Stud yearlings to be called into the ring. He held his colt close, scared but excited, too.

  The people seemed nervous despite their gay chatter and laughter. They were out to buy colts that might win the great classic races to come. Famous trainers as well as famous jockeys were here, all enjoying their popularity, and ready to give new owners the benefit of their vast experience and knowledge of young horses.

  The sale had already started, with the first consignment of yearlings entering the ring one at a time. Danny listened to the chant of the auctioneer for a while and then turned to Fair Gain’s caretaker standing close by. “It won’t be long,” he said quietly.

  The old groom nodded his gray, cropped head. “Sure ’nough, Danny. That man’s got rhythm, boy, real rhythm. He’ll sell our colts good.”

  Once more Danny listened to the musical singsong chant of the auctioneer as he got a bid of nine thousand dollars on a sleek bay colt.

  “Yeah! I got nine, nine, nine. Who’ll go ten, ten, ten? I want ten, ten, ten. Give me ten, ten, ten.”

  Danny said, “They’re bidding high prices after all, war or no war.”

  “There’s keen comp’tition out there, Danny-boy,” the old man said, his eyes never leaving the ring. “No one’s goin’ to get colts cheap like maybe they thought.”

  The bay colt was bouncing around the ring on his toes. He was a handsome, well-grown individual who wasn’t going to take anything quietly. He kicked out with his hind legs, almost knocking the gavel out of the auctioneer’s hand. Everyone laughed, and the bidding jumped quickly to nine thousand five hundred dollars.

  “They sho like a colt with spunk,” the old groom told Danny, “an’ this one’s got plenty.”

  Danny watched the auctioneer as the man sought still higher bids for the bay colt. It was no easy job selling yearlings, he knew. The auctioneer had to please both the buyer and the seller. He had to be nice to everybody, keep everything above-board, and try to be fair. Such a job required the skill of a horseman, the acumen of a businessman, the tact of a diplomat, and the zeal of an evangelist. And this auctioneer, Danny decided, was one of the best.

  “… I got five, five, five, ninety-five,” the singsong chant went on. “Make it ten, ten. I want ten, ten, ten. Make it ten, ten, ten.” Suddenly he stopped.

  For a moment the area was quiet. Then the auctioneer said, “Now listen heah, folks. You all know that nine thousand five hundred dollars isn’t much to bid for this heah colt.” Although he spoke to more than five hundred people, his words were meant for the two lone bidders who remained in competition for the bay colt.

  He singled out one of them, a man sitting in the back, and said, “Mr. Riddle, you’re not going to let Mr. McClelland get this heah colt, are you? You went up to ninety-four. Will you make it an even ten thousand? That’s not much money for this heah colt. You just look at him now.”

  Danny was standing a short distance away from the Riddle party. He saw Mr. Riddle, seated between Louis Feustel and Mrs. Riddle, shift uneasily in his seat. Then Mr. Riddle glanced at his trainer, faced front again, and raised six fingers.

  Once again the auctioneer’s chant claimed the area. “I got six, six, ninety-six. I want ten, ten …” He was looking at Mr. McClelland now. “… give me ten.”

  Mr. McClelland nodded.

  “Yeah! I got ten thousand dollars. Make it five, ten-five. I want five, ten-five. Make it five, five, five …”

  Once more the auctioneer’s gaze swept to Mr. Riddle, who shook his head. He would go no higher.

  The auctioneer’s eyes traveled over the crowd, seeking a bidder who might keep this colt in the ring long enough to bring a still higher price. “All done?” he asked finally. “Are you all done at ten thousand?” He waited a moment more and then his gavel came down hard on the wooden platform.

  “Sold to Mr. McClelland for ten thousand dollars.”

  Danny, along with everyone else, relaxed. But he kept his eyes on the bay colt, who was now refusing to leave the ring. He wouldn’t be led out. He wouldn’t back out. One of the ring attendants picked up a broom and whacked him over the rump. This unexpected tactic worked and the colt left the ring quickly.

  Another yearling was being led into the ring, but for the moment Danny wasn’t interested. So he moved Man o’ War to a shady spot beneath the elm and maple trees, stopping just in back of the Riddle party. He didn’t mean to listen to their conversation but snatches of it reached him.

  “I’m sorry we lost that colt,” Mr. Riddle said.

  “Ten thousand was too much to pay for him,” Louis Feustel replied.

  “I think so, too. But I would like to buy about twelve colts here, and he was a good one.”

  “Better wait and see how they go,” his trainer cautioned. “There will be other sales or we can buy privately.”

  Danny watched Mr. Riddle glance uneasily at his wife. There was no doubt that he was nervous, this being his first experience at the auction ring.

  Louis Feustel said, “Remember to keep your eyes on the auctioneer and your face closed. Don’t ever look at those bidding against you. Don’t even look at me or Mrs. Riddle.”

  “I won’t,” Mr. Riddle promised.

  The bidding began again with a black colt in the ring.

  “I like this one,” Feustel said without turning his head.

  The bidding reached nine thousand dollars quickly, then seemed to stall for keeps. Danny watched Mr. Riddle try to conceal his anxiety, for he had made the last bid. But the auctioneer had no intention of letting the black colt go yet. He got busy and tugged the bidding, one hundred dollars at a time, to fourteen thousand five hundred dollars. Mr. Riddle had
long since dropped out when the auctioneer’s gavel fell.

  “Sold to Commander Ross for fourteen thousand five hundred dollars!”

  “Too high,” Feustel said again and Mr. Riddle nodded in agreement.

  The bidding on the next five yearlings was slow and low, none selling for over three thousand dollars. Mr. Riddle didn’t bid on any of them.

  Danny was about to move away when he heard Louis Feustel say, “This next colt will get a good play from the buyers, but get him if you can. He’s probably the best in the sale.”

  One of the handsomest colts Danny had ever seen entered the ring. He was a golden chestnut with brilliant white markings. His body was small compared to Man o’ War’s, but very compact and fully made.

  There was a hushed silence over the area as the colt strode around the ring, every stride under marvelous control. There was no doubt that the buyers were very impressed with him.

  “The stable talk is that he’s as good as he looks,” Feustel said. “He possesses immense speed. With that body and those legs he’ll be able to whirl and get away, that’s for sure.”

  “I took a great fancy to him earlier,” Mr. Riddle said. “But I can’t bid, Louis. Mrs. Jeffords told me she’s going after him. I won’t bid against her.”

  Danny saw Mrs. Riddle glance up from her catalog. “Just because she’s my niece is no reason not to bid, Sam, if you like him that much,” she told her husband.

  Mr. Riddle shook his head adamantly. “No,” he said. “She’ll have a hard enough time getting him as is.”

  Danny turned his gaze back to the golden colt in the ring. He was close-coupled and short-legged. He’d leave the barrier fast, just as Feustel had said. But would he be able to stay? Did he have the substance to carry him over a distance race?

  It was plain that the buyers thought so as soon as the bidding started. There was a clatter of bids from all sides of the area, and the flashy colt was up to ten thousand dollars in a twinkling. The tempo slowed after that figure was reached, but the auctioneer was not to be denied.

  He stopped his singsong chant and looked over the large audience. The area was hushed and he had no intention of breaking the silence. It was the right moment to let them study this colt, perhaps to envision him in the winner’s circle, a triumphant champion! There was no doubt that this colt was the darling of the sale, all right. He couldn’t be prettier; that helped a lot in selling the ladies present. And he had the conformation to interest the professional horsemen as well. The combination was unbeatable, and the auctioneer had no intention of selling this colt yet.

  His roving eyes found Mrs. Jeffords. She wanted that golden chestnut bad and so did a couple of other ladies in the audience, God bless them. He’d concentrate on this feminine rivalry a few moments. He smiled at Mrs. Jeffords, held her gaze a moment, and then, when she refused to increase the bid of ten thousand dollars, went on to Mrs. Riddle.

  He would have liked to get her bidding on this colt, too. She and her husband were impressed with him, and they still hadn’t bought a colt. But she shook her head, and he decided it was because she wouldn’t bid against her niece, Mrs. Jeffords. He went on to the other ladies, his eyes asking for a bid over ten thousand, but none of them responded.

  Finally he turned to the men without making any attempt to break the almost reverent silence. One ear was cocked for a sound from the rear of the platform. There was a bidder seated behind him, unseen by most of the audience, who had made the last bid. The man would go higher if necessary, and it was his job to see that he did.

  The auctioneer decided it was time to say something. “Now, folks, you all listen to me,” he told the crowd. “Heah we have what could be the very finest colt in this sale. He was bred in England. He’s by Sweeper II out of Zuna by Hamburg. An’ if those bloodlines aren’t enough to make you all want him, just take a good look at him. You won’t find a better-made colt in your lifetime! Yes, sir, he could be the one, folks. But I’ll let you in on a little secret. No one’s goin’ to get this heah colt for no ten thousand dollars. He’s too much colt for that price. Too many of you folks want him. So you’re going to have to open up your wallets. But wait … wait now. Before you do, take another look at this heah colt. Study him; see for yourself there’s not goin’ to be another like him in this sale.”

  That was enough to say for now, the auctioneer decided. Let them look at this colt a few moments more. He had plenty of time and patience. He had said and heard all this before, many times. Maybe this Sweeper colt would prove to be worth ten thousand dollars and a lot more on the racetrack. But the chances were just as good that he wouldn’t be worth a plugged nickel. No one could tell much about the racing prospects of a yearling.

  The auctioneer watched the golden colt as it moved about the ring with all the fluid grace of a jungle cat. It wasn’t up to him to judge if this colt would be the one or not. For all he knew he might have already sold next year’s champion for a couple thousand dollars or even less. It had happened often enough before. His job was to get the highest bids he could on each and every yearling. And there was keen competition for this colt. He should be able to get more than ten thousand dollars for him.

  “All right, folks,” he said finally. “Heah we go again. We’re goin’ to sell this good colt right now an’ you all better be on your toes or he’ll get away from you. I got ten thousand dollars. I want eleven, eleven. Give me eleven.…” His eyes found Mrs. Jeffords, who was speaking to her husband without turning her head. Then he saw Mr. Jeffords raise five fingers.

  “Yeah! I got ten thousand, five hundred dollars. Give me eleven. I want eleven. Give me eleven.…” His cocked ear caught the bid from the man seated behind him.

  “Yeah! I got eleven thousand dollars. Give me twelve, twelve. I want twelve.…”

  From far in the back, an old lady seated beneath an elm tree nodded her head.

  “Yeah! I got twelve thousand dollars. I want thirteen. Give me thirteen, thirteen.…”

  His eyes had shifted quickly to Mrs. Jeffords. Now they were on their way, a thousand at a time; with the sky the limit! “Give me thirteen, thirteen, thirteen.…” He waited for her or her husband to nod but he also listened for the voice from behind the platform.

  Finally he got the higher bid from Mrs. Jeffords. “Yeah! I got thirteen thousand dollars. Give me fourteen, fourteen.…” He turned to the old lady again, but she was through. He listened for the voice behind him, and the bid came just as he’d known it would.

  “Yeah! I got fourteen thousand dollars. I want fifteen, fifteen.” He turned back to Mrs. Jeffords.

  She was speaking to her husband again. Finally, almost reluctantly, Mr. Jeffords nodded.

  “Yeah! I got fifteen thousand dollars.” He knew Mr. and Mrs. Jeffords were almost through with the bidding. “I want sixteen, sixteen.” He turned completely around to the man behind him, the only one left who could keep this colt in the ring. But all he got was a vigorous shake of the head. Still he waited, pleading for a higher bid. “Give me a raise of five hundred dollars then, just five hundred dollars. Don’t let him get away from you.”

  It was obvious that the man wanted the colt but fifteen thousand dollars had been his limit. He shifted uneasily in his seat and wiped his face with a large handkerchief. When he took it away he nodded, then rose and left his seat. He had finished bidding.

  “Yeah!” the auctioneer called. “I got fifteen thousand five hundred dollars. I want sixteen, sixteen. Give me sixteen. I want sixteen.” He looked at Mrs. Jeffords to see if she would raise the bid one final time. She had no intention of losing this colt, he knew. She said something to her husband and the raise in bid came. It was only a hundred dollars but it was enough to buy the colt.

  “Yeah! I got fifteen thousand, six hundred dollars! Are you all done?” His gaze swept around the area, missing no one. “Doesn’t anybody else want this grand colt before I sell him?”

  The bid was the highest he’d gotten for any colt in the sale, a
nd he was satisfied. He banged his gavel. “Sold to Mr. Jeffords for fifteen thousand, six hundred dollars.” But his eyes and smile were for Mrs. Jeffords, for he knew that the golden colt was really hers.

  Danny listened to the auctioneer’s gavel fall and he knew the time had come for the Nursery Stud yearlings to be sold. His stomach tightened. He watched Fair Gain being led into the ring. He listened to the rustle of catalog pages and the hum of voices. Fair Gain was considered by many to be the top colt in the Belmont consignment. He would not go cheap.

  A few moments later Danny heard the opening bid of five thousand dollars and knew how right he was. Perhaps this colt would go for an even higher price than the one Mr. and Mrs. Jeffords had bought. His gaze shifted to Mr. Riddle, who was nodding his head at the auctioneer.

  The bidding moved swiftly to ten thousand dollars, then Mr. Riddle raised it to eleven thousand.

  Danny overheard Louis Feustel say, “Too high for this colt.”

  Mr. Riddle answered, “That’s my limit. I won’t go higher.”

  The bidding went on without Mr. Riddle, and finally the last bid was made. The auctioneer brought down the gavel. “Sold to Mr. Widener for fourteen thousand dollars,” he announced.

  It was the second highest price of the sale and a good start for the Nursery Stud yearlings. The auctioneer was satisfied with his work. He glanced at the Riddle party, knowing they had intended to buy quite a few yearlings for their new stable. But while Mr. Riddle had been an active bidder, he still hadn’t taken a single one from the ring. Perhaps it would be the next colt.

  “Mr. Riddle,” he called, “are you sure you can see from way back there?”

  “Yes, we can see all right,” Mr. Riddle answered, “but we would like to get a little closer to the front if possible.”

  “Come along,” the auctioneer said.