The Black Stallion

crowded near to look at Bonfire in his stall, and George and Tom talked to them until it was time to get ready for their race. He enjoyed having the people come to their stall, as they had at all the fairs. Most of them knew something about fine breeding and were genuinely interested in the sport. That's what made the fairs, and that was one of the reasons, Tom knew, why Jimmy would never desert them for the raceways. George and Jimmy said it wasn't the same at the raceways, that it couldn't be. Tom didn't know, but he guessed they were right.
    They brought Bonfire out of his stall, and his red coat burned bright in the sun while they put the light racing harness on him.
    The track marshal came down the row, telling those who were getting their horses ready, "We're going out in a few minutes. Get 'em all set."
    After hooking up the sulky, George stepped back to look critically at Bonfire. "Why don't you take him down to two fifteen today? He's ready for it, easy. An' from what I hear that ought to win for us. That three hundred and twenty-five first-place money looks pretty good."
    "He's ready, all right," Tom agreed. "And I'll take him faster than two fifteen if necessary. Even Jimmy would say it's all right now." He put on Bonfire's bridle and adjusted the head number on top. It was of light plastic and stood up straight; there was a white figure 3 on a black background. "Pretty fancy today." Tom smiled. "Head numbers and everything."
    "We got a mobile starting gate today, too," George said. "It's Bonfire's first time with one of those. Hope he don't give you trouble."
    "I don't think he will," Tom answered.
    The horses in the post parade passed the grandstand and bleachers. Tom felt a little nervous before so many people, and his nervousness communicated itself to the colt. Bonfire tossed his head, and the head number flashed in the sun.
    Then Tom calmed down. "It's just another race," he told himself, "the same as at any of the fairs. More people here, that's all." And he told the colt. Bonfire relaxed with him.
    "The number three horse is the only two-year-old colt in the race," the announcer said to the packed throng over the public-address system. "Bonfire, a blood bay colt, sired by the Black and out of Volo Queen. Owned by Jimmy Creech of Coronet, Pennsylvania, and driven by Tom Messenger."
    The announcer's voice droned on until he had introduced all seven horses in the race. They went down to the first turn and came back. "The horses will take one warm-up score, then go into their respective positions behind the mobile starting gate awaiting them at the head of the stretch."
    Tom warmed up Bonfire faster and farther down the track than he did usually. The colt sensed the change, for he snorted while going along; that was unusual for him, too.
    The horses went around the track, jogging into position as they neared the mobile starting gate. Tom was glad he had drawn the number three spot, for with seven horses in the race the track was crowded and the going would be difficult at the start. But in his position he would be able to get to the turn first without having to go around any of the others. He had been lucky in the drawn for position. He hoped his luck held with $325 at stake.
    Coming off the back turn, they spread out into position behind the wings of the mobile gate. The car began moving and the starter, dressed all in white, stood in the back of the open convertible, talking to them through his small microphone.
    "Slowly now," he cautioned them. "Don't rush your horses. Come together. That's it. Stay together. Not too close, Mr. Wilson. Keep your horse back from the gate, Mr. Wilson! That's it. Mr. Read, come up a little with the others. You too, Mr. Messenger. Bring your horse up with the others."
    The car was halfway to the starting line now and moving faster; the horses went along with it, pushing their noses close to the barrier.
    "You're coming up too fast, Mr. Messenger. Keep that colt back from the gate!"
    Tom was having more trouble than he'd expected. Bonfire wasn't sure about that pole extending across the track in front of him. He didn't know what it was going to do. And the strange voice blaring in front of him didn't help; neither did the speeding car's wheels that sent the track dust into his nostrils. Tom kept him close to the fast moving gate, for he wanted to get away with the others; he didn't want to lose his good position before reaching the turn.
    Like an onrushing wave the