The Black Stallion's Sulky Colt by Walter Farley

to race
any
horse. But before this morning he’d never hurt anyone, either.
    Again Alec was conscious of the tightness within his chest. He wanted to shout to George that
he had to race Bonfire
. But he could say nothing.
    A moment later he heard a familiar voice, one that was warm and friendly and casual. “I can’t figure you out, Alec. You ask me to come and I come. Then the minute I get here you say you’re goin’ home.”
    Alec turned and looked at the short, broad-shouldered man leaning comfortably against the stall door. No longer could he keep his feelings to himself, and especially not from somebody he had known and worked with for so many years. Henry Dailey could almost read his mind. But all Alec said was, “You’re a little late, Henry.”
    Henry smiled and came inside, his bowlegs taking him quickly over the straw. “Never too late,” he said, holding out his hand to George. “Hello, George. My name’s Dailey.” He nodded toward Bonfire, adding, “I’ve been standin’ outside lookin’ at him while you fellows been talkin’. A grand colt, a beautiful colt, just like you said, Alec.”
    Removing his battered hat, Henry ran a handkerchief over the top of his brow and through his long white hair. “A scorcher,” he said, turning to George again. “This is the kind of a day when you ought to be thankful you got no hair to make you hotter, George.”
    The old groom frowned and shifted his tobacco chaw from one side of his mouth to the other. George didn’t like to be reminded of his baldness. Nor didhe like the way this man took over the stall, so casual, so confident.
    Alec too was impressed by Henry’s attitude. It was as though nothing unusual had happened, as if Henry dropped around to Roosevelt Raceway every day.
    Henry replaced his hat. “Let’s get a cup of coffee and talk, Alec,” he said. Outside the stall he stopped and looked back at Bonfire. His eyes were still on the colt when he said, “George, I wonder if you’d mind puttin’ off your phone call to Jimmy until we get back? I’d like to talk to him too. I got a feelin’ Alec and me won’t be goin’ home.”
    All the way to the cafeteria, Henry maintained an incessant stream of small talk. Sitting down at the table, his coffee before him, he said, “You’re sure you don’t want anything to eat, Alec? Have you had lunch?”
    Alec shook his head. “I’m not hungry. I’ll get something later on.”
    â€œEverything’s fine back at the farm,” Henry said. “That War Admiral mare is over her cold. I had the vet give her the terramyein shots like you said to do. The only trouble with usin’ those drugs is that they cost too darn much. Our bill from the vet alone the past few months is almost as much as what it would cost us to buy another good broodmare.”
    Alec said, “It’s better than losing our horses.”
    â€œYeah. Sure. I’m with you a hundred percent. You know that, Alec. All I mean is that we’ve had more than our share of sick horses this year.” He paused before adding, “The Black is sure feelin’ good. But he misses you, Alec.”
    Henry finished his coffee and went to get anothercup. When he came back he talked about Roosevelt Raceway for the first time. His voice and manner didn’t change. Both held the same casualness as before. “I looked at the horses here while I was tryin’ to find you, Alec. They’re a lot different from what they used to be. If harness racin’ has changed so have the horses.” Henry chuckled. “Why, I remember my father unhitchin’ his mare from a plow and takin’ her into town for an afternoon of racin’. There was nothin’ unusual about that in the old days. It was what was expected of harness-racin’ horses, an’ they were built for