MORVICH 



I, Morvich, the Awkward, the cast-off, the 

 cull of other days. 



Where are the others? 



Where is Red Tom? Where is Kai-Sang? 

 And, above all, where is Runstar? There is 

 no answer to that question. There can be none. 

 Those picture horses have been left behind in 

 the race. It is I, the cull, who have gone up. 



I tell you, my friend, my feelings are rather 

 varied on this occasion. As I stand in my 

 stall, here on the edge of this vast race course, 

 where tomorrow all the fashion and beauty of 

 the South will be gathered under the sunshine, 

 but which tonight is empty and dark and 

 tenanted only by the ghosts of great horses of 

 the past who have run their course and gone 

 on, here I am inclined to solemn thought. 



I have no fears for the morrow. I shall run 

 to win. That is all that counts. If there is a 

 better horse than I, he will know at least that 

 he has been in a horse race. But there is a 

 nameless something stirring in me. I know 



—37— 



