MORVICH 



pointed tone." "Look at that fellow's lumpy 

 knees." 



"Yes," said the trainer, shaking his head, 

 "I'm afraid he's the cull of the stable." 



"Well, name him Morvich," said Mr. 

 Spreckels. "I've been reading a Russian novel 

 in which the hero, a twisted sort of fellow, 

 bears that name. Perhaps the colt, Morvich, 

 may come out from behind as the man Morvich 

 did." 



Old Bill Carroll shook his head doubtfully. 

 "He'd have to go some," he said. 



The beautiful colt who had the same father 

 as I was named Runstar. That was my first 

 indication that I was regarded disparagingly 

 by humans. Later I was to have many far 

 plainer evidences of it. As for Runstar, who 

 had the same father as I, he became the pride 

 of Spreckels' stables while I with my lumpy 

 knees and my awkwardness, was looked down 

 upon more and more. Ah, how I hated him, 

 how I yearned to out-do him in some fashion 



—16— 



