“As soon as I received Mr. Hurst’s letter, I phoned Mr. Volence in Los Angeles and read it to him. I asked him if he felt the same way about it, and he said, ‘Yes, definitely.’ He went on to say that, with the country talking so much about this mystery horse, it would save them running another match race next month. ‘Might as well kill two birds with one stone—’ he said, ‘Cyclone and Neville’s Folly!’

“Neville’s Folly, heh, Mr. Volence—just wait’ll you see him in action!” the article finished.

Alec looked up from the paper at Henry. Slowly a grin spread over his face. Instead of feeling delirious with excitement as he had expected, he felt cool and composed.

“He’s in, Henry,” he said. “He’s in!” The man and the boy looked at each other, and then turned and walked toward the stallion, who had stuck his black head out the stall door and was looking at them curiously.

PREPARATION
16

Alec never knew how he got through the rest of that day in school. All that he could think of was that a week from today he’d be racing the Black against Cyclone and Sun Raider! Somehow, he still couldn’t believe that all this was happening to him—Alec Ramsay.

That night after dinner, he walked into the living room where his father was reading. He sat down in a chair and nervously turned the pages of a magazine. His father looked up from his paper.

“Received a letter from Mother today, Alec. She’s getting a big kick out of Chicago and seeing your aunt again. Says if everything is okay here, she’ll stay three weeks. That all right with you?”

“Sure, Dad.” Alec smiled. “You’re a good cook!”

His father laughed. “Exams at school will be starting pretty soon now, won’t they, son?”

“Monday.”

His father lit his pipe and then picked up the paper again. He turned to the sports section. “Ready for ’em?” he asked.

“Guess so.”

The room became silent. Alec turned more pages of his magazine, and then looked up at his father whose face was hidden behind the spread newspaper. Thick smoke curled upward toward the ceiling. Alec cleared his throat and was just about to speak when his father’s voice broke the silence.

“All anybody can read in the sports section these days is news about that horse race out in Chicago next Saturday. Wonder who the devil this mystery horse is that Jim Neville’s got into the race?”

Alec’s pulses raced. “Dad—”

“Yes, son?”

“Dad, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. You see—”

His father once again let the paper fall on his lap and looked at him.

Alec couldn’t keep his voice from faltering. “The mystery horse—the mystery horse,” he stammered, “is the Black.”

His father looked at his son in amazement. The room was still. “You mean, Alec, that the Black is the horse everyone’s been talking about—he’s the mystery horse?”

“That’s right, Dad.” Alec rose from his chair and went to the window; he drew the curtain to the side and then let it fall again.