The Black Stallion

over," George said. "This is their early fair, Tom. Later on, in September, they'll have a bigger one and a whole week of races."
    "Will we be back for it?"
    "Maybe we will… maybe we won't. Depends on how things go."
    "The purse money isn't very much," Tom said, thinking of Jimmy's need for money. He opened the small blue race program and George leaned over to study it with him.
    "Like I told you," George said, "they never are. Jimmy never got rich racin' at the fairs. Three races today and the purse money we'll be after is the most—one hundred bucks." His gnarled fingers pointed out the first race; there were four horses listed and the last was "Bonfire… Owner, Jimmy Creech… Driver, Tom Messenger."
    There it was for the first time, and Tom looked hard and long at it before asking, "What do they mean by calling it a classified race?"
    "The fair's racin' committee picks horses at the track which they think are about the same speed at this time of year and able to compete on an equal basis," George replied. "There are no races jus' for two-year-olds at most of the places we'll be goin', Tom. They'll be classified races jus' like this one is."
    "Then most of the other horses Bonfire will be racing will be older than he is. Is that it, George?"
    "That's it, Tom. They'll be older, all right, with most of 'em 'has-beens' like Symbol was. Too old for real fast competition, so their drivers bring 'em to small fairs like this where they'll have a chance to make some money. Our colt should keep up with 'em, all right, and the racin' committee here knows it, so Bonfire goes in this race."
    George stopped talking to wave to some people coming down the stable row, then he rose to meet them. Tom stayed behind, reading the program.
    Their race, he saw, was a two-in-three heat plan. That meant to win first place Bonfire would have to win two out of the three heats, and each heat was a mile long. Tom realized more than ever why Jimmy had insisted that they build up the colt's strength and endurance before going after speed.
    His thoughts turned to Jimmy again when he read the way in which the one-hundred-dollar purse would be divided. Fifty dollars would go to the winner; twenty-five dollars would be given to the second horse; fifteen dollars to the third; and ten dollars to the fourth. It wasn't much money, as George had said, but they were certain to make something with only four horses in the race and four prizes. The colt's entry fee had been two percent of the purse—costing them only two dollars of their savings.
    Tom knew it would be a long, long time before they could help Jimmy Creech financially if they raced in small-purse races such as this one. But it was the way it had to be, and Jimmy knew what they were up against.
Anyway
, Tom thought,
today Bonfire and I will be out to take first place and make fifty dollars for Jimmy Creech
.
    He looked up from the program to find hundreds of people, practically everyone at the fair, now milling around the stables. Many of them were pushing close to Bonfire's stall; very young children and old men and women were reaching to touch the blood bay colt. Tom rose from his chair.
    A man lifted a little girl in his arms so she could pet Bonfire. "He won't bite, will he?" the man asked.
    "No… not him," Tom replied, holding the colt's head still while the little girl moved her small hand up and down Bonfire's face. Finally she touched the braided forelock. "He has a red ribbon just like yours," Tom told her, "and for the same reason… to keep the hair out of his eyes."
    The little girl giggled and the man laughed as he put her down and lifted another child to Bonfire. The crowd pushed closer and Tom asked them to step back just a little to give the colt some air. They obliged willingly, as though they understood.
    A short and very plump lady spoke. "A two-year-old, isn't he?"
    "Yes," Tom said.
    "I've always liked blood bays," she went on. "He's tall for his age. He must be close to sixteen hands."
    "A half-inch short." Tom smiled. "He's fifteen, three and a half."
    "And he's still growing," someone in the rear said. "What's his breeding?"
    "By the Black and out of Volo Queen."
    There was a deep murmur from the crowd.
    "He gets his size from the Black, then," a lady said. "I saw his picture. He's a giant of a horse."
    "And that head's the Black's too," a man said. "Broad forehead and long, thin nose. That's him, all right."
    The small, stout woman in front spoke again. "But don't