MORVICH 



mountains, over the rich, green fields of the 

 middle country, to that distant eastern land 

 where the thoroughbred was king. 



Because of my defective knees and unim- 

 pressive workouts, my masters decided to enter 

 me in the Suffolk Selling Stakes at Jamaica on 

 the opening day. May 6. They would sell me 

 if they could. The betting odds, influenced by 

 reports from California about my trials were 

 30 to 1 on me, and before the race began they 

 went to 50 to 1. Even then, not even for 

 sentimental reasons, would any of the Spreckels 

 stable connections place a bet upon me. 



Jockey Metcalfe was up. He had ridden me 

 once or twice before. I knew him for a cool 

 hand, who would not use the whip unless 

 compelled to. There was something electrical 

 in the situation. What, I did not know. It 

 was something that affected me alone. I said 

 to myself I would win that race, or die of a 

 broken heart. 



Red Tom was the favorite, a chestnut colt 



—22— 



