The Black Stallion

watching Bonfire's effortless stride behind the uneven, ponderous-gaited Symbol. "He should feel wonderful."
    "He does feel good about the colt," George said. "But there'll be time enough next year for Jimmy to get real excited about Bonfire. Right now he's thinkin' of the season comin' up ahead of him, and wondering whether or not he can make enough money to buy feed and hay to keep us going for another year. It's always been that way for Jimmy this time of year," George added with concern. "Sometimes I wonder why he keeps goin' on his own. He could have had all kinds of jobs trainin' and racin' for other people; then he'd have no money worries."
    "But it wouldn't be the same to him," Tom said quickly.
    "No," George admitted. "It wouldn't. Jimmy wants his own horses. He wants it the way it's always been for him. But it's tough making a go of it these days, an' he knows it."
    The month of May came and with it an early hot, summer sun. Even so, Jimmy Creech was reluctant to open the shed doors or to remove the heavy muffler from about his neck. It was, Tom thought, as though Jimmy didn't want to accept the fact that the racing season was drawing near, as though he knew that Symbol wasn't ready for it and neither was he. Tom's knowledge of horses told him that Symbol never would be ready again, and he was convinced that Jimmy knew this as well as he. Yet Jimmy was going out with the black horse, and Tom could only hope for the best.
    One Saturday morning Jimmy experienced the first stomach pains since his attack at the farm. He was in the colt's stall with Tom, working over Bonfire's feet, when suddenly he went down on his knees and clutched his stomach.
    "Jimmy!" Tom dropped down beside him while the colt moved away, then came back to shove his soft muzzle against Jimmy's head. Tom pushed him gently away while helping Jimmy to his feet.
    "Just indigestion again. Something I ate," Jimmy said, as they left the stall.
    George came running up, took one look at Jimmy's distorted face, then shook his head sadly at Tom. "I knew it would come," he said, "—just like last year, same time."
    "Nothing's come," Jimmy mumbled, but his eyes were glazed. "I'll be all right in a minute. It's just uncomfortable, that's all. I'll need some bicarbonate of soda, George," he added, meeting his friend's eyes.
    "You need more than that," George answered quickly. "We tried that last season. We're not goin' to have another attack like that one. We're goin' to see Dr. Morton now— like we shoulda done last year." George's voice and face were adamant. He wasn't going to listen to any objections from Jimmy.
    Tom knew that Dr. Morton was a stomach specialist in Pittsburgh, twenty-five miles away, and that George had tried without success to get Jimmy to see him months and months before.
    Whether Jimmy realized that George was determined to take him to Dr. Morton, or the stomach pains were more severe than he pretended they were, Tom didn't know; but for one or both reasons Jimmy followed his friend obediently to his car. George got behind the wheel.
    "Can you stay until we get back, Tom?" George asked while starting the motor.
    Tom nodded. Jimmy didn't say anything until the car was moving, then he said, "I didn't get to feed the colt, Tom. You do it, please."
    Again Tom nodded. He stared after the car long after it had disappeared down the road. Poor Jimmy. It was one thing on top of another. Finally Tom turned and went inside the shed.
    He fed Bonfire, stood beside him while he ate, then took the colt to the paddock behind the row of sheds and turned him loose.
    He was watching him go about the paddock, noticing the sun picking up the brilliant red of his coat and making it glisten. But Tom's thoughts weren't with the colt just now, for he was worrying about Jimmy. So he was startled when he heard a voice say, "He's a grand-looking colt, Tom. Jimmy is proud of him, I'll bet."
    Turning around, he saw Miss Elsie. As usual, this time of year, she wore her gray sweatshirt, faded and turned inside out, the same kind as the one Tom wore. And like him she was hatless, her brown hair cut short and bristling.
    "He's proud of him, all right," Tom said. "But he's sick again, Miss Elsie. George just took him in to a Pittsburgh doctor."
    "I was afraid he'd be sick again," she said, shielding her horn-rimmed glasses from the sun the better to see Tom. "Jimmy's getting on—and it's too bad this had to happen, because we need men like Jimmy Creech," she