MORVICH 



needing attention; owners and others loitering 

 in knots and talking of the coming race. 



The race? Yes, for there was only one 

 discussed — the Derby. The entries finally had 

 come down to ten. Some of the best horses 

 were said to be out of it, horses picked to give 

 me the hardest competition. Ah, but is it not 

 always like that? When one has done his best 

 and won, they say: "Yes, but it would have 

 been different, there would have been another 

 tale to tell, if Thus and So had been opposed." 



Yet, of the ten of us left, we were the class 

 of three-year-olds. And it was I who was the 

 favorite — I, Morvich, the ugly duckling of the 

 stable where I was born. Favorite, indeed; 

 yet still men could not bring themselves to be- 

 lieve in me because of my thick foreknees and 

 overlengthy hind legs. "No, he has won his 

 races so far through some freak of fate;" they 

 said, "now he will meet the classiest horses of 

 the American turf. This will be different." 

 And so, favorite though I was, I was held odds 



—48— 



