The Black Stallion

beautiful to watch. Her head was small and set finely on a long, slender neck. And running from her forehead down to her nostrils was a white, narrow blaze, the only other mark besides her stockings.
    Tom watched her effortless, birdlike action while Miss Elsie worked her on the longe; then he went to Bonfire. And because it was his nature, he looked at his colt a long while, pointing out to himself the different physical characteristics between colt and filly.
    In many respects they're alike
, he thought.
Each has the same fineness of line, but the filly is so graceful she gives you the impression that her feet are scarcely touching the ground. My colt is graceful, too, but not as graceful as the filly. Bonfire gives you more the impression of power. He's taller and more muscular
—
maybe that's why. The filly glides and you get the feeling she might take off and fly. Maybe she will when Miss Elsie starts working her. On the other hand, my colt's stride is smooth and regular, and there's a feeling of power you get when you watch him that overshadows anything else
—
even his control of action
.
    "My colt's neck is more muscled and more arched at the crest than the filly's," Tom said aloud. "And his head is smaller, too. He probably gets both those characteristics from his sire, the Black. From what Jimmy has told me about the Black, I'd guess that."
    Bonfire came to the door of his stall and shoved his muzzle into Tom's armpit. "There's a girl your age down the row," Tom said. "You'll be seeing a lot of her pretty soon now. She looks good—maybe the best Miss Elsie ever had. Only time will tell that."
    And Tom knew, too, that only in time would they know what speed his colt possessed. A lot of colts and fillies looked good as yearlings, but failed utterly later on when their trainers asked for speed.
    The days passed and Tom enjoyed Miss Elsie's company, especially when they went around the track together. For Miss Elsie had broken all her yearlings to bridle, harness and cart at the farm, and now at the track she followed very closely Tom's methods with Bonfire. But the woman worked longer and harder than Tom, for she had eleven yearlings in her sheds and she wouldn't let anyone else, even Tom, help her school and exercise her colts and fillies. Only she knew the kind of horse she wanted to take Mr. Guy's place.
    It was two weeks since Tom had received George's letter, and there had been no further word. While Tom walked to the side of the cart as Bonfire pulled it around the track, he was thinking about Jimmy and wondering what was happening at Bedford.
    So concerned was Tom with his thoughts that he didn't see Miss Elsie leave her shed, walking behind the Princess. Neither did he hear the filly's hoofs as she drew close. But he felt the light touch of Bonfire's mouth on the bit, and knew immediately that Miss Elsie was behind him. His colt always acted this way when another horse was on the track; he threw his head up a little, so eager was he to move out of his nimble walk. But the signal for which he waited so patiently didn't come.
    Tom turned to find the filly's head, her white blaze shattering the blackness of her face, directly behind him.
    Laughing, Miss Elsie turned the filly away and let her draw up alongside Bonfire. The colt didn't turn to the filly nor did the filly take any notice of Bonfire. Yet two pairs of ears pricked forward and strides lengthened until filly and colt felt the unspoken commands of their drivers through the lines. They slowed to a walk again.
    "They're all business out here," Miss Elsie told Tom.
    The boy nodded. "When I take Bonfire into your shed, he'll play and nuzzle the filly. But not here. He's serious about this," he added, smiling.
    "And so is the Princess," Miss Elsie said, removing one hand from the lines to adjust her glasses. "I've named her Princess Guy, Tom," she added quietly.
    Tom said nothing, but he knew full well that never before had she named any of her yearlings after Mr. Guy.
    "You think she's it, then, Miss Elsie?"
    "I think so, Tom. I know it's too early," she added quickly, "what with all the work ahead. But there's a feeling here." She raised the lines in her hands. "It's different somehow with Princess Guy than with any colt I've ever had. She looks good, but it's more than that. I
feel this filly
—for some reason I do. And she could be the one."
    "I hope so, Miss Elsie," Tom said, his gaze on the red coat and moving black tail and mane of his