The Black Stallion

broken during the race. Frank Lunceford was in the room, too. It was Lunceford who had hooked sulky wheels with Jimmy at the Bedford Fair, the crash which had sent Jimmy to the hospital. George looked at the chubby, heavy-set man-for a long while, expecting Lunceford to remember him because together they had gone to the hospital with Jimmy. But Lunceford didn't recognize him, either.
    There were other young drivers in the room, and like Ray O'Neil and Frank-Lunceford they were well known on every raceway track throughout the country. They had been through the drawings for position in championship races before, yet their faces and voices made it evident to Tom that they were as tense as he was. Like him, they knew that the luck of the draw would play an important part in the Two-Year-Old Championship.
    The entries for the race closed, and, just as the announcer had told the crowd the night before, there were ten starters. Now would come the draw for positions.
    The positions were to be assigned by lot. The race secretary put the name of each horse on a slip of paper, then deposited it in an upturned hat on his desk; his assistant stood beside him, shaking a box which was closed except for a very small opening. Tom heard the rattling of the balls inside the box. He knew there were ten balls, numbered one to ten.
    "Please," he mumbled to himself, "any number but ten."
    Uncle Wilmer turned to him with keen, eager eyes. "You'll win with Bonfire even from ten, all right," he said.
    Tom managed a grim smile. No longer did they have to raise their voices for Uncle Wilmer to hear them; deafness was just a convenience, a way for him to escape Aunt Emma's wrath.
    After shaking the hat with the slips of paper in it, the race secretary placed the hat on a shelf behind him. He couldn't see inside the hat now; no one could.
    "Ready, Bill?" the secretary asked his assistant. "Let's go, then."
    No one in the room moved or talked when the race secretary drew one slip of paper from the hat and simultaneously his assistant shook out a numbered ball from the covered box.
    "Victory Boy," the secretary said, "number five position."
    Tom turned to Frank Lunceford, driver of Victory Boy, and saw the smile on the man's round, chubby face.
    "That's okay," Lunceford said, turning and leaving the room.
    "Raider," the secretary continued, drawing another slip of paper and reading it. He picked up the next ball that had been shaken from the box. "Number nine," he added.
    Another man left the room.
    "Silver Knight," the secretary said. Every face in the room turned quickly to Phillip Cox and Ray O'Neil, standing together, then all gazes shifted quickly to the ball on the desk. "Number two position," the secretary added.
    Phillip Cox uttered a sharp yell, then left the room with his arm across Ray O'Neil's shoulders. Silver Knight had one of the best positions in the race; Phillip Cox's luck was holding good.
    Tom looked at Miss Elsie and saw that she was very worried. She was moving uneasily about the room now, and her glasses shifted up and down as she wiggled her large nose.
    The race secretary was drawing faster now. "Volomite's Comet… number four position."
    Smiling, another man left the room.
    "Princess Guy," the secretary said next.
    Miss Elsie stopped pacing, and her face was tight and drawn as she waited for the secretary to pick up the numbered ball.
    "Number one… the pole position for Princess Guy."
    Miss Elsie's large teeth seemed to fill the room when she smiled, then she left quickly.
    Tom started shifting uneasily while the secretary called off more positions with no mention of Bonfire. The number seven position went next, then numbers six and eight. There were only two more positions left to be drawn—number three and number ten!
    George and Uncle Wilmer moved a little away from Tom in their uneasiness. Across the room stood the only other representatives of a horse in the race, the driver and the owner of Chief Express. They too moved about nervously, then stood still as the race secretary reached for the hat.
    "Please, please," Tom mumbled to himself, "not ten. Give us a chance, give us
three
."
    "Chief Express," the secretary said, then he reached for the moving ball.
    All eyes watched it come to a stop. And they saw the number even before the secretary read it off.
    Number three!
    The men at the other end of the room yelled together and rushed for the door, leaving Tom, George and Uncle Wilmer alone with the