MORVICH 



barrier without giving my jockey any trouble. 

 I have pranced a little at times. Who would 

 not, out there in the sunshine, with the band 

 playing, and amidst that gay scene? 



Gay scene? It is quiet enough here now. 

 Here and there a light gleams in the dark en- 

 shrouded stables. Along the stalls come the 

 occasional snores of exercise and horse boys. 

 Outside I can hear the low voices of my Charley 

 White and little Al Johnson. They are talking 

 about me, I know, though I cannot hear what 

 they say. But let them talk. There is nothing 

 but love in their hearts for me. Charley is my 

 assistant trainer, the man who brought me in 

 a box car from Jamaica to the Downs a week 

 ago. He is a light-colored Negro, and, oh, how 

 he knows and understands a horse. 



"Morvich, run!" I heard him say the other 

 day. "Huh. He could beat de Sperits." 



As for little Al, he rode me in the Pimlico 

 Futurity, my last race last fall. I know him. 

 He knows me. He is not a jockey with a great 



-42- 



