MORVICH 



He filled the eye. He pranced, knowing well 

 the import of his family name. Busy American, 

 heavily bandaged on the nigh foreleg because 

 of a bowed tendon, yet prancing, full of spirit; 

 Surf Rider, so fractious he had to be led to the 

 post — ah, we all knew we were to be in a race. 

 As for myself, I was not at all nervous, I knew 

 what was expected of me, and with teeth 

 crunching the bits, pulling for my head, I went 

 soberly along. 



Yet, at the post I wanted to be off at once. 

 This would not do. There had to be perfect 

 alignment. Several times I darted forward. 

 Finally, one of the starter's assistants took my 

 head, and held me thus until the barrier lifted. 

 We were off! 



"Boy," said little Al, leaning forward to my 

 ear; "they want us to ride this race to win." 

 He had to hold me in. 



Yet the race was won in the first hundred 

 yards. For in that distance I was free and clear 

 of the field, I had the rail, and there could be 



—53— 



