The Black Stallion by Walter Farley Page A

too. There are too many young fellers like that guy"—George nodded his head toward a man driving a dark chestnut stallion with light mane and tail—"and Jimmy doesn't like those young fellers. He says they take too many chances. That's a laugh, when I think of some of the races Jimmy drove years ago." He turned to Tom. "But he's sick, Tom, so let's just you and me go along with him and be patient. He'll come out of it."
    Uncle Wilmer touched Tom's arm. "Here comes Jimmy," he said and there was a definite note of eagerness in his voice.
    Jimmy neared the track gate and as Tom studied the thin, frail body he could tell that Jimmy hadn't gained a pound during the summer. His face was tanned, but there was a strange brightness in his eyes that Tom didn't like. From all appearances it looked as though George was right. He walked to the gate behind George, while Uncle Wilmer followed.
    George unhooked the check rein that kept Symbol's head up and shouted to Jimmy, "Here's someone to see you!"
    Holding the lines, Jimmy slid from the sulky seat and gripped Tom's outstretched hand warmly. "Good seeing you, Tom," he said. "Let's get over to the stable where we'll have some quiet."
    Jimmy walked beside Symbol while George led the horse out the paddock gate. And as Tom walked with him he noticed that Jimmy ignored the greetings of many who called to him. That, he knew, wasn't like Jimmy.
    Uncle Wilmer was with them and Jimmy had greeted him cordially. On the way to the stables Uncle Wilmer did most of the talking, telling Jimmy of some of the races he had seen at this fair twenty to thirty years ago. Jimmy pushed his soiled red-and-white sulky cap back on his head and listened to Uncle Wilmer while they walked along. Uncle Wilmer needed no more encouragement than that to continue his stories.
    Tom's gaze moved over all three of them. They had much in common, he thought, being of the same generation. Physically they were much alike too, except that Jimmy was small-boned and very thin compared to stocky George and Uncle Wilmer. Temperamentally, though, they were very different. He couldn't imagine anything disturbing George or Uncle Wilmer from their placid, regular way of life. But Jimmy was as highly strung as any colt and his emotions would vary from day to day and from hour to hour.
    "Is the colt as good as his picture, Tom?" Jimmy asked suddenly, turning to him.
    "Better." Tom smiled. "And you'll probably see even more in him than I do."
    "I hope so," Jimmy said, and eager anticipation came to his hazel eyes with the speed of a camera shutter. "I sure hope so. I'd like to have a great one before—" He stopped abruptly and the enthusiasm left his eyes. "If only it didn't take so long."
    "It's not so long, Jimmy," Tom said earnestly. "A little more than a year from now and we'll be getting him ready to go-"
    Jimmy Creech smiled grimly, saying, "Sure, Tom, I know. Maybe we can do it."
    Reaching the stables, they went down the long shed row until they came to Symbol's stall. With all four men working on Symbol, they had his harness off, the sulky put away, and the horse washed in a matter of a few minutes. After Symbol had been walked by George and Tom, they put him in his stall; then they all sat in the chairs and talked.
    For a long while Jimmy was cheerful, telling of the fairs where he and George had raced; then Tom noticed that his gaze turned more and more often to the brightly colored awnings set up in front of some of the other stables, and to the neatly arranged piles of fine blankets, the well-oiled and expensive harness, the water heaters and tack trunks and sulkies and training carts and spare wheels—all freshly painted and expensive. Then Jimmy's gaze would sweep back to their seats in the sun, to his one sulky and little tack; and once he removed his racing cap and looked at it. Tom noticed for the first time how soiled it was.
    "Sure getting to be a fancy business," Jimmy said finally, and there was much bitterness in