King of the Wind by Marguerite Henry

and his stall a palace. The walls were padded thickly with the fuzz of cattails covered over with leather, so that Hobgoblin would not mar the sleekness of his hide nor the perfection of his tail. The floor was laid with chalk and abundantly strewn with straw which Agba had to change three times a day. A manger of wood was not good enough for Hobgoblin. His was of marble. As for his blankets, they were emblazoned with the Earl of Godolphin’s own crest. Even his fly-sheets bore the crest.
    “Hobgoblin’s th-th-the Earl’s star o’ hope, Hobgoblin is,” Titus Twickerham told Agba one rainy day when they were both in his stall. “Flowing in this-here stallion’s veins is the p-p-purplest blood in the k-k-kingdom.”
    The groom stopped to wipe out the corner of Hobgoblin’s eye with a clean pocket handkerchief, then went on. “The Earl—he’s g-got his heart set on Hobgoblin. Through this-here stallion he’s got hopes to b-breed the best line o’ horses not only in the kingdom, but in the world.”
    Agba preferred to listen to the drumming of the rain, but the groom’s voice rose above it.

    “Right this m-minute, whilst we’re standin’ here, the Earl is lookin’ for a mare worthy of Hobgoblin. Now, ” he said, rapping his knuckles on Agba’s head, “ now ye understand why Hobgoblin’s stall is finer th-th-than yer runt’s. Hobgoblin’s King of Gog Magog, he is!”
    After that, whenever Agba pitched the old straw out of Hobgoblin’s stall and laid in the new, his lips were set in a firm line. He hated Hobgoblin. Hated the bigness of him. Hated his powerful legs and hind quarters. Hated the fat sleekness of him. But most of all he hated Hobgoblin’s eye. It had no brilliance at all. Only a sleepy look, except when the animal was aroused. Then it showed a white ring.
    “Here is where Sham should be,” Agba thought with every thrust of his fork. “Purple blood, indeed! Sham’s ancestors came from the stables of the Prophet himself!”
    One day, soon after the groom had explained Hobgoblin’s importance, Gog Magog seethed with excitement. The Earl of Godolphin made frequent visits to Hobgoblin’s stall. Usually his gait was dignified and his bearing stately, but this day his steps were quick and his words clipped short.
    As for Titus Twickerham, he was so nervous that he could not control his stammering.
    “Y-y-y-you, Ag-g-g-ba. Y-you lay a fresh l-l-litter of st-st-straw in the new m-m-mare’s stall. And w-w-wash out the mang-g-g-ger. Then p-p-put in a measure of wheat b-b-bran. The mare, Lady Roxana, arrives t-t-t-today.”
    The excited pitch of Mr. Twickerham’s voice when he said “ Lady Roxana” made Agba bite his lips. It was the very tonehe used in speaking of Hobgoblin. Lady Roxana! Hobgoblin! Hobgoblin! Lady Roxana! The names rankled in the boy’s mind. He hated them both. Without even seeing Roxana, he knew she would be fat and sway-backed and ugly.
    As Agba prepared the mare’s stall, he saw the Earl and a dozen noblemen come down to the paddock. They walked about, talking in hushed, expectant voices, twirling their riding rods, taking pinches of snuff, sneezing lightly.
    Suddenly a cry went up from the grooms. “ ’Ere she comes! ’Ere she comes!”
    Agba flew out of the stall. He made field glasses of his fists. He strained his eyes down the lane. But the late afternoon sun blinded him. At first he saw nothing at all. Only the hawthorn trees and the yews, standing dark and still.
    Then all at once he could make out a blur of motion. It cleared. It became a shiny red van drawn by two dapple-grays.
    The grays were clattering over the bridge now and up the hill between the yews and hawthorns. They were nearing the stables. The driver, an enormous man in red livery, was drawing rein. As the horses jammed to a stop, a lackey hopped down from his perch beside the driver and went around to the back of the van. He let down the tail gate. Then, bowing from the waist, he handed a