Henry spoke softly. “Everything’s here—even my number.” He held the shirt in his hand. Around the sleeve still hung the white number 3. “Seems like only yesterday I wore ’em in the last race I ever rode.”

Henry stopped. Alec didn’t speak—he could tell from Henry’s face that once again he was living that race over.

“We went to the post,” the little man said, as if to himself. “It was the largest crowd ever to see the International Cup. They were all for Chang, too—he was the greatest race horse of the day. How they roared when we lined up. The other horses wouldn’t stand still. But nothing ever bothered Chang—he let the others do the frisking. He just waited quietly for the barrier to go up.

“I never saw the rest of ’em in that race. Chang leaped ahead at the start, and I gave him his head—we won going away.” Henry swept a hand across his eyes. “It wasn’t until he had come to a stop that he suddenly trembled, staggered, vainly attempted to keep his feet, then fell to the ground dead. The doctors never knew what actually killed him—finally said that it was a blood clot or something like that. I never knew what to believe. The only thing that mattered was that Chang was gone—but the record he set that day still stands.”

Henry stopped and his gaze turned to the Black.

“I never thought I would see a horse that could break that record—until now,” he said. The Black’s long neck stretched far over his stall door. He shook his head and whinnied.

Carefully Henry put the shirt back into the bundle and rose to his feet. He carried it over to the corner of the barn and placed it inside the trunk. Then he turned around and faced the boy. “There’s just one thing that stands in our way of putting the Black in a race, Alec.”

“You mean because he’s so wild, Henry?”

“No, I don’t mean that. By spring we should have him calmed down a bit. But I read in the paper just now of how you got the Black. You didn’t tell me this morning.”

“I was going to, Henry, but why does that stand in his way?”

“Only that you don’t have any record of who his sire and dam were, and, Alec, a horse must be registered to run in a race.”

Alec felt a sick feeling in his stomach—he hadn’t realized how much he had looked forward to seeing the Black race. “You mean, Henry, we have to find that out before we can put the Black on a track?”

“ ’Fraid so, kid,” Henry answered. Alec could see that he was as disappointed as himself. “Isn’t there any way you could possibly get that information?” the little man asked.

“I don’t see how, Henry. I know the name of the port in Arabia where he got on, but that’s all. Everyone on the ship was drowned, so there aren’t any records we could possibly get.”